


The Heart is a Muscle

by queenofchildren



Category: Still Star-Crossed (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hollywood, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bookshop, F/M, Notting Hill AU, movie star
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2020-09-25 01:02:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 52,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20368057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenofchildren/pseuds/queenofchildren
Summary: When Hollywood superstar Benvolio Montague stumbles into a little bookshop in London, all he wants is a moment of peace from the paparazzi chasing him. But that's before he's met the shop's owner - one sharp-tongued, short-tempered, intriguing Rosaline Capulet.





	1. With a heart in first, and a soul behind

**Author's Note:**

> Sooo, it looks like I'm starting a new AU... I have a lot planned and very little written for this one, so we'll see how it goes. I just recently rewatched Notting Hill and felt the need to do a Rosvolio version of it.  
The title and a bit of the general vibe are from Gang of Youths' "The Heart is a Muscle".

They're hunting him again.

He saw the first telltale flash of a camera mere minutes after he emerged from the Underground station, stopping briefly to get the lay of the land. The second one followed minutes later, when he stopped at a red light, but even if they were more subtle Benvolio would know that they're there. After two decades as one of the biggest names in Hollywood, he _always_ knows. 

And he's _tired_.

Tired of the irregular sleeping schedule, bouncing between all-night shoots and early morning sessions with his personal trainer and international press tours that take him through a dozen different time zones in a week. Tired of spending half his time living in hotel rooms and soulless luxury apartments. Tired of his every move being watched, and having to look over his shoulder everytime he leaves the house because not only are there paparazzi on his heels nearly every day, but now every idiot with a smartphone feels it's their duty to play amateur reporter and inform the world that Benvolio Montague just had a Frappuccino, or went to the farmers market for some fresh produce, or did any other perfectly innocuous thing that turns into news just because it's him doing it. 

And it doesn't look like it's going to get any better soon - not when the third instalment of his hit movie series _Chase Adams, Space Cowboy_ is about to hit the theatres. It's why he's here in the first place, to do interviews and tv talk show appearances and the whole shebang. The trip has been meticulously planned by an army of personal assistants and PR agency worker bees, and frankly, Benvolio shouldn't even be here. He wasn't supposed to set foot outside of his hotel, let alone brave the masses on the subway and drive all the way out to Shoreditch just to look at some art.

But for just one afternoon, between an early inbound flight and the evening's first engagement as the guest judge on a talent show, Benvolio has decided to do something crazy, completely step out of line, and... go for a walk, alone. 

He read that this part of London is supposed to be an art collector's paradise these days, with a vibrant art scene full of fresh talent, and the underground culture to match. Mercutio offered to set up a private tour for him, visits to some of the galleries that have been making a splash recently, but he's done those tours before, and has been disillusioned quickly. To an art gallery, he's nothing more than an opportunity for some quick cash, a clueless walking bank account that can be talked into buying the most expensive piece in the collection just by mentioning that the artist is a supposed "shooting star", or at the very least "creating some buzz". 

No, he wants to form his own opinion, rather than have it dictated by someone else. 

But he's only had time to look at two galleries when there's another series of flashes, and he sees the first paparazzo has been joined by two more, and they're starting to draw attention. Not much longer, and they'll be bold enough to come up and ask him what he's doing, or someone will recognize him and ask for an interview, and then it won't take long until he has to call Mercutio for a discreet ride back to the hotel, and that will be the end of his little adventure. 

No. It won't be. 

Picking up his pace, Benvolio turns the corner into a smaller street, takes the next turn after a few steps and another one after that, glad that the labyrinthine little streets allow for such manouvers. Hell be hopelessly lost within a matter of minutes, but if he manages to shake off those vultures it will have been worth it. 

Unfortunately, he hasn't succeded quite yet: When he half-turns to look back over his shoulder, he spots one of the paparazzi turning into the little alley he's sought refuge in, and Benvolio, acting on instinct, throws himself through the door of the nearest shop, pressing himself flat against the wall to peer out. His pursuer hasn't spotted him yet, and Benvolio breathes a sigh of relief. Just to be on the safe side, he decides to move further into the shop, out of sight of the windows. 

He only notices now what kind of place he picked to be his temporary shelter: the smallest, most cramped bookshop he's ever seen. The room can't be much bigger than the walk-in closet at his L.A. mansion, but the shop owner seems determined to make the most of the space. There are bookshelves reaching from the floor to the very ceiling, with ladders at regular intervals to let customers reach the higher shelves, and books stacked on every other available surface as well. 

Curious, Benvolio ambles deeper into the shop to discover a second room, even lower and narrower but just as cramped as the first one. There are no flashy display cases jostling for attention, no promotional posters or cardboard cut-outs to draw attention to the newest bestseller, or any of the stuff he'd find in a bigger bookstore. There are only books, evenly sorted into sections - travel, art, classic literature, philosophy... There are no cheap paperbacks to be seen either, no bestselling crime novels or self-help books. Apparently, this bookshop has a higher opinion of its customers than the big chain stores - or simply less of a wish to make money. 

The place is deserted, which is odd given the bustle out on the street, locals on their way to work mingling with hipster tourists and even a few guided tour groups. It seems like the little shop is a little too stringent in its refusal to draw in customers with colourful displays and 2-for-1 promotional deals. Which is too bad, because their selection is well-curated, as far as he can tell: One leisurely walk down the art section reveals a well-balanced mix of must-read classics and obscure subjects, household names mixed in with unknown authors promising a different perspective. 

It doesn't take long and he's got a little stack tucked under his arm, books he'll probably never find the time to read but which he covets anyway, if only for the reminder of who he could be. He could have gone to art school, as he always wanted, and almost did. But then he was offered the role of Chase Adams, and his uncle convinced him to accept. It would be a great chance, perhaps his only chance, to break free of being an everlasting child star, and instead of badly aging out of his childhood fame, it would allow him to prove that he can carry a movie on his own merits. There would still be time to go to art school later, once the shooting was done. 

But once the shooting was done, there was a promotional tour, and then a slew of interviews once the movie turned out to be a success, and a sequel soon after, and then a spin-off and a few minor roles - to keep his portfolio diverse, his uncle argued, although at that point, the entire world only knew him as Chase Adams anyway. There was no more talk of art school after that. 

And it's not like Benvolio hates acting - he loves it, in fact, loves the process of slipping into different characters and figuring out what drives them, what moves them, what makes them cry and laugh and rage. It's just that, well, good old Chase isn't exactly the kind of character that takes a lot of time to figure out. He's fun, and a good guy, but he's hardly what one might call Shakespearean. 

Not to mention that, for all the perks of fame and fortune, Chase Adams is the reason Benvolio is currently hiding in a bookshop, looking at books about art instead of the art itself, because people think they have a right to know about every single step he takes. And one look outside tells him that he's not safe yet: The pack of photographers are still prowling the street outside, peering through shop windows for any sign of him. 

Grabbing his little stack of books, Benvolio moves further into the depths of the bookshop, into the back room. There's a window nook with a wooden bench before it, just out of sight of the door and the front windows, and Benvolio takes his bounty there, opens up the first book, and settles in for a long wait. The place is nice and quiet, at least, the air permeated with that typical, slightly musty book-smell and something else underlying it, a faint flowery scent that he can't place but which makes him feel immediately at ease. If he's going to be trapped here for a while, this is not a bad hideout at all. 

Unfortunately, it seems his plan will get smashed: He's barely through the first two chapters of an excellent read on the sociology of street art when someone clears their throat audibly right before him. 

Not just any someone, he notices when he looks up, but a startlingly attractive woman, long-limbed and elegant, with lush black curls piled up on top of her head, and full lips that look like they were made for smiling. 

Unfortunately, the woman seems in no mood to smile - on the contrary, she's glaring at him as if he'd just set fire to her books. 

"Did you by any chance read the sign above the door when you came in?" 

That question sounds like a trap, but he can't quite figure out how. He decides to answer truthfully, with his most charming smile to placate her. 

"I didn't, actually. I just sort of stumbled across the place, and I have to say..." 

She cuts him off before he can tell her how much he likes it here. 

"It says bookshop. Not "café" or "public library". Bookshop. Which means you come in, you buy the books you need, you leave. "

That, and the sharpness with which it is voiced, leaves him speechless for a moment - and then makes him blurt out the first thing that pops into his head. 

"Wow, you are _really_ bad at customer service." 

"My idea of customer service is helping people find the right books and then selling them. It does not include letting people read books they have no intention to buy just to pass the time." 

"How do you know I don't intend to buy them?" 

"You have about," she tilts her head to look at his stack of books, lips moving silently as she counts, "seven books here. Are you telling me you're going to buy all of those?" 

"I am, actually. I just couldn't wait to get started on this one. You have a great selection here." 

This time, he actually manages to get out the compliment - surely that will soften her up? 

But his opponent won't give in without a fight. 

"If you've chosen the books you want to buy, you can come with me to the register and pay for them. _Before_ you start reading." 

"What if I need more books?" 

"_More_?" She sounds almost offended now, and he wonders if he should point out to her that people wanting to buy books should make her happy. 

"Yes. I also need..." He let's his eyes roam around the room, thinking feverishly, when something occurs to him. "Something about Shakespeare. Do you have that?" 

"Do I have _something about Shakespeare_?" Again that incredulous note, but Benvolio doesn't let it shake him, only nods earnestly. Her eyebrows arch skeptically, and he notices that she has pretty eyes too, warm and dark. 

"Macbeth, to be precise." 

"The play?" 

"I have the play. I need... I don't know, some additional explanations." 

She nods, still not smiling but considering his request in earnest now. 

"I have some books that might be what you're looking for. Follow me." 

With that, she leads him deeper into the bookshop, entering a third room he hadn't even noticed yet. 

"May I ask what you need it for? Academic studies? Got tickets to the Globe and want to impress your date?" 

She's almost smiling when she says it, and he decides he isn't imagining it: She's making fun of him. A woman with a sense of humor, and also, he notices now that he's walking behind her, the source of that alluring flowery scent - her perfume, perhaps? 

She stops and looks at him expectantly, and he remembers that she asked him a question. 

Distracted, he accidentally tells her the truth. 

"I have an audition coming up, actually." 

"You're an actor?" 

He has to suppress a smile - she really hasn't recognized him? That's refreshing, to say the least. 

"Yup."

"Have you done a lot of Shakespeare?" 

"None whatsoever." 

"So what do you usually do? 

"Movies, mostly. A TV show, a while back." 

That TV show was his big break, the beloved family show that cast him as an eight-year-old, and kept him busy until a car accident tragically ended his fictional life at seventeen. And mentioning it seems to finally trigger the usual recognition in her: She freezes, her hand halfway to one of the higher shelves, and stares at him with wide eyes. 

"You're that space cowboy guy!"

"I am. Usually, people notice it quicker." 

"Sorry. I was a little preoccupied." 

"Don't apologize. I've had some peace and quiet for the first time in ages in here. It's why I stayed so long - no one was staring at me, and the pack of paparazzi chasing after me didn't suspect a thing."

He doesn't know what prompted him to say it - he's usually very careful about what he says to people, aware that all of it could get carried on to the press or, worse, to social media. But there's something about this woman, about the way she looks at him, that makes him want to spill his guts. 

"You on the other hand missed out on a business opportunity - you could have taken a bunch of pictures of me reading, and sold them to the gossip mags. Possibly along with a story of how I tried to shoplift a book." 

She gasps, looking outraged, and Benvolio feels another smile coming on, soft and fond, at her unabashed earnestness. 

"I wouldn't..." 

"No. You don't seem like you would." 

She doesn't reply right away, only looks at him inquisitively - grappling with the fact that "that space cowboy guy" is standing in her bookshop, probably. He's seen that look before, and usually people just need a moment to adjust. 

"You weren't actually going to shoplift, were you?" 

Benvolio laughs. 

"No. I have other vices." 

For a moment, he thinks she'll ask about them - but instead, she nods, turns back to the bookshelf, and starts pulling out books. 

"Now, these are the most comprehensive notes - aimed at students, but not a bad investment. They're good for getting through the text in the first place, actually understanding all the hidden meanings, jokes and allusions."

She grabs a surprisingly thick book and slaps it against his chest before continuing on her hunt, now wholly engrossed in her task. 

"And you might find an annotated text of the play useful, do you have that?"

Benvolio has to think about it - so far, he only has the few pages Mercutio sent him for the audition, plus a version of the entire play he found online. 

"I don't think so, no."

A knowing nod, then another book descends from the shelf and nearly hits him in the face. 

"And you don't have to, but it certainly helps to read up a little on the political background - Scottish history is as fascinating as it is confusing."

With that, she sets off to another part of the shop, and Benvolio follows, entirely entranced. Somehow, she went from accusing him of, well, _loitering_ to throwing herself into the task of equipping him with every possible bit of background reading for his audition, and he finds himself endeared by her zeal. Talk about work ethics! 

The thick book about Scottish history is followed by another, even heavier tome on Shakespeare's impact on the English language, a treatise on gender and power in Shakespeare's plays, and a - thankfully much thinner - publication of essays on Shakespeare and feudalism. There's no way he'll ever find the time to read all of this, but he doesn't have the heart to tell her so. 

She moves through the shop with brisk, determined steps, as if she knew by heart where exactly each book she's looking for is located, and he wonders if she just works here, or if there's a deeper connection between her and the shop. She seems so entirely at home here, so intimately familiar with the place, it's almost as if she's a part of it.

She's also, he notices belatedly while he watches her climb up a ladder, her long, jeans-clad legs anchoring her in place while she stretches up towards the highest shelf, still talking to him. 

"I'm sorry?" 

"I said I could order that one for you, if you'd like." 

He has no idea what she's talking about, or how long he's been drifting off with his thoughts. But judging by the ever-growing pile of books in his arms, he's already got plenty of material. 

"I think I'll stick to the ones I've got for now. If I need anything else, I can always come back, right?" 

"Right," she says, sounding a little dazed, before she shakes herself out of it. "Of course you can come back. We're open Monday through Saturday, nine am to six pm."

She makes her way down the ladder again and hands him one last book, her expression turning a little sheepish when she notices how many books he's carrying by now. 

"You don't need to feel obligated to buy all of those, by the way. They're just suggestions." 

"Oh, I'm definitely taking all of these. They seem to be excellent suggestions. Besides, how else could I prove to you that I know how a bookshop works?" 

There, he thinks, she's not the only one who can be cheeky. And if he's not entirely mistaken, she does seem a little flustered when he brings up their earlier altercation.

"I'm sorry, about being so short with you earlier. It's just that I've got a lot of hipsters coming in lately who want to pose for pictures with the books but not buy any," she explains as they make their way over to the counter and he sets down the books for her to scan them. "And since every sale could make the difference between staying afloat and having to close... Well, I get a bit testy sometimes."

"I guess running a bookshop isn't exactly easy these days," Benvolio sympathizes, and she nods with a little grimace. 

"You can say that again. I won't ever be able to beat Amazon or Waterstone's when it comes to prices or selection." 

"You can beat them at service though. Once you stopped trying to kick me out, you were actually really helpful." 

A smile tugs at her lips, chasing away the hint of a frown he's seen just before. 

"I'm glad to hear it." Having finished ringing up his purchases, she gets a linen carrier bag out from under the counter and carefully stacks the books inside it. "The bag is on the house - you've been the best customer I've had all year." 

"Well, it's been a pleasure doing business with you," Benvolio says, keeping his voice carefully even despite the ridiculousness of the statement. "There's just one more thing..." 

"Yes?" She sounds a little wary, and Benvolio is momentarily tempted to break out the charming smile again - the Chase Adams-smile that makes hearts melt left and right for his heroic alter ego. 

In the end, he decides against it, and just sends her a natural smile. Benvolio Montague will have to be enough today. 

"What's your name? You already know mine, I feel like I'm at a disadvantage." 

She regards him for a moment. 

"It's Rosaline. Rosaline Capulet."

That's the name printed on the bag before him. 

"Rosaline Capulet of _Capulet Books_. You're the shop owner?" 

She nods. 

"My parents started the shop, I inherited it." 

"A family business! Now I'm even happier I did my shopping here. "

Rosaline smiles, a full smile this time, and Benvolio makes a decision: This won't be his last time meeting Rosaline Capulet of _Capulet Books_.

By the time he's hailed a cab and is on his way back to his posh Mayfair hotel, Benvolio is already on his phone, hatching a plan.


	2. And will give myself completely to the moving and the strange

Rosaline Capulet has been running _Capulet_ _Books_ for nearly five years now, ever since her parents died before she even got a chance to figure out what she wanted to do with her degree in English literature. She's seen some crazy days since then - busy days, boring days, stressful days and fun days - but she can say with certainty that she's never had a day like today.

It started regular enough - a smattering of customers too small and disinterested to promise a full register at the end of the day, a few headache-inducing hours going through last month's books and trying to figure out how much time she has left until she can no longer afford the electricity to open the shop - and then, out of nowhere, a weirdo who turned out to be a Hollywood superstar waltzed into her shop and proceeded to buy a frankly obscene amount of books.

It's been three hours since Benvolio Montague left her shop, but by the time she's closing up for the night, Rosaline is still thinking about him, half-convinced she dreamed the whole thing in a bookkeeping-induced coma. Eventually, just to make sure she isn't going mad, Rosaline checks the day's surveillance tapes, and sure enough, there he is: all but throwing himself into the shop without a glance at the merchandise, nervously looking over his shoulder at unseen followers - paparazzi, she remembers him saying. She heard him come in, but she was too engrossed in her work to do more than glance at the security monitor every once in a while. Only when he sat down in the back room and actually began reading one of the books, looking like he was settling in to make his way through the whole thing, did she even pay any attention to him.

She's not entirely proud of the way she handled that situation, aware in hindsight that that's the exact kind of behaviour that gets you called a bitch in angry Yelp reviews. But the last few months have been particularly tough, and after yesterday's street art tour spent nearly an hour taking artsy pictures in her shop before buying nothing more than a few postcards, she was simply done with people using her shop whichever way they pleased, customer service be damned.

In comparison, the fact that she didn't recognize him seems almost forgivable. He certainly forgave her for it, seeming more amused than offended. He did seem vaguely familiar from the start, but how was she to expect an actual movie star to walk into her shop?

She's seen his movies, of course, dragged by Livia and Juliet, and she must have seen at least some episodes of the sitcom that made him famous, a cult classic by now, but she's not exactly a raging fangirl. Still, she couldn't help but be more than a little starstruck when she finally figured out who he was. Once she made the connection, it was kind of hard not to be – he's a household name, after all, a larger-than-life figure.

But standing in her bookshop, looking first harried and annoyed and then rather too relaxed, he looked pretty... normal. Still handsome, sure, but not in the usual buff, overly polished Hollywood way. And he was _nice_, once they got over their initial differences, without a hint of arrogance or entitlement. He listened to her advice on what to read for his audition without interjecting once, apparently not feeling the need to show her up, and this too she found refreshing.

He was also surprisingly frank, rather than hiding behind PR-catchphrases. She can't be sure, of course, but ranting about paparazzi or sharing details of his upcoming audition seemed to her to be pretty forthcoming for someone who probably has to carefully guard his reputation. What did he say? She could have made money by selling pictures and lies about him to gossip magazines. Do people really do that? Is that what he has to be afraid of every time he interacts with someone, appears anywhere in public? What a horrible way to live.

Of course, she won't do any such thing, even though she could certainly use the money. But she's not going to profit off of selling details of other people's lives, no matter how famous they are.

She supposes there would be no harm in telling Livia and Juliet, provided she swears them to secrecy. She might have to throw in a screenshot of the security footage just so they believe her, but they'd be over the moon – and probably pissed that she forgot to ask him for an autograph.

But when Livia calls and asks how her day has been, Rosaline omits the momentous news, not even sure herself why she's doing it. It's just that, some part of her (and she's well aware that it is a horrendously stupid part) wants to think of today's encounter not as "Benvolio Montague, International Superstar" but as that cute guy who bought half of her Shakespeare commentaries, made dorky jokes and smiled as if he'd invented the very concept of smiling in the first place, specifically for her.

Which is ridiculous, of course, she's well aware of that - he probably has that exact smile ready for every adoring fan, every curious reporter he meets; thousands upon thousands of people, and her face just one among many. The fact that he managed to make her feel as if he wouldn't forget her the second he stepped outside her shop is probably just a sign that he really is a good actor, even if his filmography isn't exactly Cannes material.

And on that note, Rosaline sternly tells herself to stop thinking about him – there really is no use to it, and since she spent half the afternoon talking to him, she's way behind on her bookkeeping duties.

So, instead of thinking about mysterious Hollywood stars, she'll think of very mundane and very real bills, and only once she's done with that will she allow herself to send a screenshot of the security footage to her sister and her cousin and enjoy watching them freak out over it. And that will be the end of that.

  
But the next morning, before she's even had time to get that screenshot, Rosaline finds out that she may have been wrong about that.

  
***

  
Rosaline has a morning routine that starts precisely one hour before the shop opens: Get dressed, grab whatever breakfast-appropriate food she has lying around, and head downstairs to the shop to switch on the coffee maker, which is far superior to her own coffee maker upstairs. Open up her laptop and check for any new e-mails that have arrived on the shop's e-mail-address, listen to potential messages on the answering machine, if there are any, and then open up the register and check if there's sufficient change in there. After that, she usually has about half an hour left to potter about until she opens the shop's door, to re-stock shelves, set a few new arrivals on the table by the door, or write some new cards with recommendations, provided she's had enough time to actually read any of the new publications lately.

Today, she doesn't make it past step 3. Because, unusually enough, there is a message on her answering machine – and the message itself is certainly unusual as well.

“Hi, Rosaline – it's Benvolio. I came by your shop yesterday?“ His voice sounds a little tinny coming from the ancient answering machine's speaker, but still recognizable. “I just wanted to say again how much you helped me finding all those books, and I was thinking I'd like to say thank you. So I was wondering if you'd like to accompany me to the theatre tonight? They aren't doing Macbeth, at the moment, which would be most appropriate I guess,” a small laugh, “but the Globe's production of Henry IV is supposed to be pretty good too. So, if you're in the mood for some Shakespeare, just meet me outside the Globe at seven tonight. It's a little short notice, I know. But if you can make it... well, I'd be happy to see you again.“

The message cuts off just then, and Rosaline sinks on the stool behind the counter and just stares at her answering machine dumbly for what might be several minutes, unsure if she really heard him right, before it occurs to her to replay the message.

Yup.

She heard that right.

Benvolio Montague just asked her if she wants to go to the theatre with him.

Tonight.

Rosaline spends another ten minutes blankly staring at the answering machine and relistening to the message before it occurs to her that she's supposed to be opening the shop right about now.

Instead, she picks up the phone.

“Livia? I'm going to tell you something, and you have to promise not to freak out.“

  
***

  
By the time Livia is done freaking out, Rosaline has sorted the change in the register and opened the shop.

“Are you done?”

“Of course. I just can't believe you're going on a date with an actual Hollywood star!”

“It's not a date,” Rosaline corrects, for about the fifth time this conversation, and heads over to the table by the door, idly picking up and rearranging books displayed there. “It's a gesture of gratitude.”

“_Puh-lease_, he's taking you to the theatre on a Friday night. It's a date.”

“It's not a date,” Rosaline repeats in her sternest big sister-voice. This situation is weird enough without adding talk of dates.

“Sure.” Livia seems to have taken her subtle warning and drops her probing. “So, what are you going to wear to your non-date?”

Rosaline stops her book-shuffling, freezing in place.

She hadn't even thought about that yet.

“I don't know. Jeans and a nice shirt?”

“_Jeans_? You're going on a date with a _superstar_ and you want to wear _jeans_?!”

“Well, it is at an open air venue. It might get chilly.”

“Who gives a crap? Then you're going to suck it up and wear a dress that makes your chilly ass look amazing.”

Rosaline can't help but laugh at her sister's enthusiasm, but her humour is not appreciated.

“Alright, I'm coming over later. You're not taking this seriously enough.”

“I just don't want to make a big deal of it.”

Livia scoffs.

“Well, _I'm_ making a big deal of it. Someone has to.”

Then she hangs up, and Rosaline returns to her desk. Maybe if she tries to concentrate really hard, she can get a little bit of work done before her sister bursts in here, determined to turn her into some kind of fairytale princess, and her evening at the theatre into the Prince's ball.

But she's not going to let that freak her out. It's _not_ a big deal. And it's definitely not a date.

***

  
At a quarter to seven, Rosaline arrives at the Globe in a dress that's a little too thin for the evening, with her hair and make-up artfully done, feeling thoroughly ridiculous.

She's already wiped off her lipstick on the ferry, and she managed to surreptitiously grab a jacket when Livia wasn't looking, but Rosaline still feels like she's trying way too hard. After all, who is she trying to impress here? Benvolio Montague has famously dated some of the most beautiful women in the world – he's hardly going to fall over himself when he sees her in her little black dress from Marks & Spencer.

But that's not the goal of this evening anyway, she reminds herself sternly. The goal is to have fun and spend a nice evening at the theatre, ideally without being a weirdo and freaking Benvolio out. There's no reason to be nervous about that, surely.

But then she arrives at the meeting-point and Benvolio sees her and smiles brightly, and Rosaline's stomach flutters a little just the same.

"You came! I wasn't sure if you could make it on such short notice."

He sounds genuinely delighted and relieved, as if there had actually been any doubt about her coming and Rosaline wonders suspiciously if he really was unsure or if he's just overacting to be polite.

She decides it's the latter, and only realizes belatedly that she's probably supposed to say something in return.

"You look different."

He does: His hair is darker - probably a wig - and he's wearing an actual mustache that she's sure wasn't there yesterday.

"I have to play a bit of dress-up if I want to go out without being recognized. It's silly, I know."

"It seems sensible. You'd probably be surrounded by fans in a flash if someone recognized you."

Benvolio nods, looking relieved again. 

"And then we couldn't enjoy the play in peace." He holds out his arm, a charmingly old-fashioned gesture. "Shall we?"

Tongue-tied once more, Rosaline only nods, and Benvolio waits patiently for her to take his arm so he can lead her to the entrance.

"Now, I have to apologize - our seats aren't quite the best in the house, but they're the best I could get on such short notice."

"How did you even get tickets at all? The play's been sold out for weeks!"

Rosaline knows because she was thinking about going to see the play as well, a highly acclaimed production - but by the time she got around to actually ordering tickets, even the cheap standing spaces on the ground floor were sold out.

"I told my assistant he'd be fired if he couldn't get them."

Benvolio says it with a completely straight face, so matter-of-fact that Rosaline recoils in horror.

"I'm kidding! I got them on ebay."

He grins, and Rosaline finds herself mentally adding another observation about him to her list: Willing to joke about himself.

Then the doors open and they walk from the foyer into the theatre arena, climbing up the stairs to the first balcony to find their seats on the wooden benches. Just like every time she's been here, Rosaline feels struck by how strange and wonderful it is to be enjoying the same plays people enjoyed more than 400 years ago, sitting almost in the exact same spot, on probably similarly hard benches.

Beside her, Benvolio is leaning forward eagerly, craning his head to look around.

"I've been meaning to come here for ages! It really is something, huh?"

It may not be the most eloquent summary, but Rosaline finds it quite fitting.

"It really is. Have you done the tour? It's quite interesting too, lots of info on how the plays used to be performed. Did you know the cheapest places, standing in the yard, only cost about as much as a loaf of bread would have, back then? This place wasn't nearly as highbrow as we're making it out to be today."

"So, in a way, Shakespeare's plays were closer to a modern day action blockbuster, or a rom-com," Benvolio observes, pleased, and Rosaline nods.

"Absolutely." She grins as something occurs to her. "Your Chase Adams could have been a character in one of his plays."

Benvolio nods as well, although it seems to Rosaline that there's a shadow creeping over his face.

"Although probably not quite a main character. He's more comic relief than tragic hero."

Rosaline wants to point out that she's sure his Space Cowboy character has the potential for some more in-depth development when the lights start to dim and a gong calls stragglers to their seats.

The play starts and Benvolio leans forward once more, the same enthusiasm she observed earlier painted across his face. His passion is contagious, and Rosaline feels a little like she's experiencing her first time at the theatre again. She lets herself be swept away as well, suffering and laughing and raging right along with the characters.

During intermission, they take a turn around the foyer, looking at the props and costumes from other famous plays exhibited there, and exchanging bits of trivia about their favorite plays, and her initial awkwardness dissipates a little more with each second she spends in Benvolio's company - not a larger-than-life action hero after all, but someone just as eager to geek out over theatre trivia as she is. When the gong calls them back in for the last act, Rosaline is almost a little reluctant, tempted to just keep talking and laughing because every time Benvolio laughs, that little flutter makes another appearance. But return inside they must, for the play to reach its pinnacle and conclusion, and before she notices, the evening has flown by. The curtain closes, and they're swept back outside by the tide of theatregoers.

They're still discussing the end of the play when the doors close behind them, so engrossed in their debate that they don't even notice the person approaching them until they're right before them: A middle-aged, sharply dressed man with close-cropped light hair, a steely expression, and a cold fury in his eyes that makes Rosaline recoil on instinct.

"So, this is what you're skipping interview appointments for - another one of your little _dalliances_."

The words are accompanied by a look at Rosaline that makes her feel as if her tasteful black dress had suddenly blown away and left her in nothing but her underwear, and she feels Benvolio's hand tense where it brushes against hers.

"I didn't _skip_ anything. Mercutio called them and asked to postpone."

"Yes, claiming you were sick. What if someone saw you here? If the studio gets wind that you're dodging your obligations, they'll sue you for breach of contract."

"They're not going to _sue_ me over one missed interview!"

But the man is not to be deterred.

"You're going back to the hotel right now. Your postponed interview is tomorrow at six, and I want you looking your best."

With that, he starts dragging Benvolio off to a car waiting nearby. Benvolio looks like he wants to protest when the mysterious interloper adds:

"Right now, or I'm pulling the plug on your little charity project. You know the studio isn't too happy about that one anyway."

And with that, as if the words had been a magic spell, the fight seems to go out of Benvolio, and he lets himself be dragged away, only stopping once to turn back to Rosaline.

"I'm so sorry, Rosaline. I really have to go. Will you be alright getting home? Do you need money for a cab?"

Rosaline nods and shakes her head in quick succession, feeling dazed and overwhelmed by this sudden turn of events.

Benvolio ducks into the car and disappears behind the tinted windows, but before it can drive off, the older man stops and turns back to her.

"Oh, and Rosaline?"

Rosaline feels the hair on the back of her neck stand up at the way he says her name, almost unnervingly friendly.

"I think we can all agree that it would be best if this little adventure were not made public." He leans closer and lowers his voice, and the friendly veneer drops off. "Whatever publicity you may hope to gain for your little bookshop, it's not worth it. I've swallowed bigger fish than you. Just remember that."

With that, he turns away and gets into the car as well. The door slams and it speeds off to leave her behind, dazed, mortified, and finally, thankfully: Angry.

How dare that man treat her like this? How dare Benvolio just rush off with nothing more than a hasty "sorry" and an offer of cab money? She may not be world-famous, or worth millions, but she's still a _person_. A person who's been somewhat successfully running her own business for several years now, and who certainly doesn't need to exploit her or anyone else's private life for "publicity".

If this is what hanging out with a Hollywood star entails, Rosaline decides as she stomps off towards the Underground, she can very well live without it.

Still, for a moment memories of the evening flash by - their conversation during the intermission, Benvolio's smile when he saw her, the way he leaned closer to make his little comments - and Rosaline feels a pang of something like loss.

Then she shoves it aside - there will be no more thoughts of that. She'll remember how the evening ended, and keep it as a reminder why people like her should stay far away from people like him.

Except, once again, things don't turn out quite that way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still finding my groove with this one, but I'm slowly getting into it.  
Oh, and a note on Shakespeare:In this universe, Shakespeare exists, but not the play Romeo and Juliet.


	3. I won't let it so betray me, though my soul got used to it

There's another message on her answering machine the morning after Rosaline's disastrous not-date, a repeat of last night's apology. Benvolio sounds genuinely contrite throughout, apologising not just for his abrupt departure but also for the behavior of the man interrupting them - his uncle, it turns out.

It's a good enough apology, or an honest one at least, and Rosaline almost lets it soften her into a conciliatory reply before it occurs to her that she doesn't really have a way to reply: Benvolio's number is blocked, and she doubts trying to get to him through the studio will be an effective approach.

So, after a few repeat plays of his apology which she'll never admit to anyone, Rosaline deletes the message altogether, forcing herself not to let that sense of loss spread again. This little adventure, fun as it was for the most part, was never more than an interlude, a brief bit of excitement to distract her from the slog of everyday life. Now, it's back to reality, and that reality doesn't have space for American movie stars.

Until, one morning some weeks later, Benvolio is suddenly standing in her bookshop, looking pale and drawn and like he's about to collapse under some invisible weight.

"Can I stay here for a bit?" He blurts out. "I need somewhere quiet, and this was the first place I thought of. I promise I'll buy everything I read."

A tired smile accompanies the words, one that seems to cost him so much effort that Rosaline feels the sudden overwhelming urge to hug him.

"What happened?"

"You haven't seen it yet?"

Rosaline shakes her head.

"My uncle's been arrested. Apparently, he's been evading a whole lot of taxes. He might have also done some embezzling."

"Shit. So what's happening now?"

"Well, for now, it's all over the media. Along with some speculation that I'm somehow involved in it too. I don't know if the IRS thinks so too – if they do, they haven't made any attempt to contact me yet."

His voice sounds hollow now, almost robotic, as if he either hasn't really grasped what's happening yet, or is purposefully trying to distance himself. Either way, it indicates that the news must have hit him hard.

And realising that, Rosaline does something she hasn't done in almost two years: She closes the shop in the middle of the day. Clearly, this is an emergency.

Once she's locked the door and put up the faded "Closed due to family emergency" sign, Rosaline turns to Benvolio and gestures for him to follow her.

"Come with me."

With that, she sets off towards the back, where a narrow stairway leads up to her apartment, conveniently located right above the shop. It's been her refuge ever since she was a child, the safest place she knows even after it seemed that all safety was ripped away from her. Hopefully, it will be just as much of a safe haven for Benvolio.

***

Benvolio doesn't really know what made him decide that _Capulet Books_ would be the best place to head to in a crisis. But when he woke up from a post-workout nap to find his phone blowing up with messages and missed calls from his agent Mercutio, his assistant, Mercutio's PR lady and the PR staff of the studio, he panicked.

In between all the talk of damage control and public statements and "controlling the narrative", all Benvolio wanted was to find someone who wouldn't talk about any of those things, and would just let him be at peace for a few moments.

And before he knew what he was doing, he was in a cab headed for Shoreditch.

Halfway there, it occurred to him that she may not even want to see him, after the disastrous end of their date. He left a message on her answering machine, apologising again, but he forgot to actually tell her his blocked private number, and by the time he realised that she had no way to reach him, it felt silly to bother her again, and then he got swallowed up by reshoots and promo stuff and didn't have a chance to figure out a way to approach her again.

He's thought about her though, more often than he'd like to admit, during boring flights and gruelling workouts and jetlag-induced sleepless nights. He's been to the theatre since, to parties and events and even on a few dates, but he can't remember having as much fun on any of those occasions as he did at the Globe with Rosaline. He's read her books too, every last one of them, and poured the knowledge into his preparations for the audition, and in a way, that too made it feel like she was still in his life, in a way. In fact, he was thinking about contacting her again, asking for another shot, a second date that wouldn't be interrupted, but when the studio told him he'd be going to London again for the premiere of _Chase Adams_ 3, he chickened out and didn't call her after all.

Now, he really is about to see her again – without a clue if she even wants to see _him_ again. She probably doesn't, he thinks with sudden temerity as he gets out of the cab – and after the way she's been treated at the end of their evening, he couldn't blame her for it.

He had words with his uncle afterwards, in a rare instance of actually facing a confrontation instead of his preferred method of simply ignoring his uncle and tuning out his voice when he goes on one of his rants on Benvolio's career and all the sacrifices it supposedly requires. He's used to them by now, too much perhaps, but seeing that same casual callousness directed at Rosaline was somehow different, and much harder to bear.

Unfortunately, Rosaline doesn't know that he tried to stand up for her, and even if she did, she may consider it too little too late.

But those thoughts aren't helping now – he's already standing outside her bookshop, and all the alternatives to it are thoroughly unappealing.

When he enters, it is to find Rosaline bent over something on the table behind the register – something both important and unpleasant, judging by the frown on her face, the way her teeth are worrying at her bottom lip. The chime of the bell above the door makes her look up, her face smoothing into polite inquisitiveness before it sort of freezes in surprise.

He blurts it out before she can even ask what he's doing here, perhaps to prevent her from having enough time to remember the disastrous circumstances of their last goodbye.

“Can I stay here for a bit? I need somewhere quiet, and this was the first place I thought of. I promise I'll buy everything I read."

She doesn't exactly laugh at his attempt at a joke, but she doesn't throw him out right away either. Instead, she steps closer to ask:

“What happened?“

And in that moment, he knows it was the right choice to come here: Because Rosaline asks the right question and then listens to his report calmly, without judgment, like he hadn't quite dared to hope. Then, to his shock, she walks over to the door, locks it and hangs up a sign – presumably indicating that the shop is closed – and leads him to the back of the shop.

“Come with me.“

“Where?“

“My place is right upstairs. We can talk up there.“

Benvolio has no objections to that plan, so he remains quiet as he processes this new information. So Rosaline lives right above her bookshop? No wonder she seems so at home there – it is her home, in a way.

And it really is a home in a sense Benvolio hasn't experienced in years, he finds when they reach the top of the stairs. The living-room contains a well-worn sofa and an armchair that seems to be just as old, even if the upholstery is new, and there are throw pillows with fashionable patterns that must be more recent additions. Most notably, there are books everywhere, stacked to the ceiling just as they are in the shop downstairs but much more worn and dog-eared, and Benvolio has to smile as he looks at them – he should not be surprised, he guesses.

“Would you like some tea?“

“Only if it's no trouble.“

“No, not at all – I'm making some anyway. I definitely need a cup now.“

She smiles, and though Benvolio can tell it's an attempt to cheer him up clearly born out of pity, he's nonetheless grateful.

“Then I'd love a cup as well.“

The smile he sends her way is still a little tense, because, well, he's still _a lot_ tense, but it receives another one in return before Rosaline heads on to the kitchen. He follows and watches her as she putters about – filling and switching on an electric kettle, spooning tea leaves into a strainer and taking out two cups and a ceramic kettle. Her movements are efficient without being hasty, and watching her makes a much-needed stillness start to settle over him.

He wonders about the last time he made himself some tea and comes up blank – the only thing Benvolio gets to do in his own kitchen is mix the ghastly protein shakes his dietician prescribes. His food is prepared either by his cook or by various hotels' personal chefs, in accordance with the same dietician's strict instructions, and the few times he treats himself, it's usually take-out he makes Mercutio smuggle in. Something as ordinary as a cup of tea in a friend's kitchen is a rare occurrence in his life, particularly when it comes with forbidden food like the chocolate chip cookies Rosaline places on a tray next to two cups.

“Take these over to the living-room, will you? I'll be right out with the tea.”

Benvolio does as he's told, setting the tray down on the low coffee table before the two-seater couch, and then sitting down on that same couch, feeling increasingly awkward at barging into Rosaline's life like this. What the hell was he thinking?

But before he can find an answer to the question, or decide if it's too late now to apologize for intruding and make a quick exit before he makes even more of an ass of himself, Rosaline emerges from the kitchen, carrying a china teapot and smiling reassuringly. She pours them both a cup before she sets down the pot and sinks down on the comfy armchair next to the couch, legs curling in underneath her in a movement so automatic it tells him that this must be her usual spot.

"So, how are you holding up?"

Benvolio lifts the cup to his lips, considers taking a distracting sip before the steam rising from the cup reminds him it's still too hot to drink.

"I mean, the timing is exceptionally bad - the global premiere for _Chase Adams_ 3 is in three days, and the studio has a bunch of promotional appearances planned for me before then, not to mention the press junket. They worry that everything will be overshadowed by the news of my uncle's arrest, and they're probably right. My agent says they're pressuring him to release a statement, but..."

Rosaline cuts him off.

"_Screw_ the studio! I wasn't asking about them, I was asking about you. How are _you_ doing?"

And this, he realises in that moment, this is why he came here: Because Rosaline couldn't care less about what this whole affair will do to his career. Because she says things like "screw the studio", blissfully unaware that Hollywood's elite are trembling in their shoes at the mere mention of any of the big studios. Because when she looks at him, she doesn't see Benvolio Montague, beloved child star, or Chase Adams, the face of Wonder Studios' billion dollar franchise.

She sees _him_.

"To be honest, I'm a bit of a mess.”

"Yes, I imagine I would be too."

She lifts her cup to take a sip, indicating that it's safe to do so now, and Benvolio follows her example, lets the sweet, slightly bitter tea slide down his throat and spread warmth through his insides.

Rosaline remains silent while he takes a few more sips, a few more moments to sort his thoughts.

"Have you had a chance to talk to your uncle yet?"

Benvolio shakes his head.

“I haven't really talked to anyone about it. I woke up from a nap – I'm still a little jet-lagged, I think – and saw the story all over my social media, and my phone blowing up with messages. But they're all about the PR side of it, about whether we should release a statement or address it during one of the interviews or stay silent altogether, and I just... couldn't face any of that.”

“Well, how could you, when you don't even know the full story? Isn't there anyone you can call, try and find out what's really going on? Maybe you should know a little bit more about the situation before you address the media.”

She's right, of course, and in such a simple way that he has no idea how he hasn't thought about it yet: Before he can do anything about this whole mess, he needs to _know_ more about it.

“I guess I could call my agent – he's been working closely with me and my uncle, and he's over in LA. I'm sure he could find out more.”

“Then maybe you should do that first, before you make any decisions.”

There's that reassuring smile again, and together with her calm voice and the warmth of the tea, it has the effect of finally making that panicked fog lift from his head.

“You're right, I should.”

She nods, and before he can ask, she supplies:

“You can go upstairs, if you want some privacy."

She points to a steep, narrow set of stairs in the corner, more of a ladder than a stairway and Benvolio follows her direction gratefully.

To his surprise, "upstairs" isn't a room on another floor, as he assumed – it's a rooftop terrace, and the most astonishing place he's seen yet in his stroll through the area. The space isn't particularly big, but enough to house a rickety table, two wicker chairs and a folded umbrella. Along the walls are shelves filled with pots, flowers and herbs judging by the smell, some of whom seem to be growing vertically out of the wall – an illusion created by cleverly installed vertical flowerbeds, he realises after a moment. A low wall marks the end of the terrace, looking out across the street to the opposite row of houses, and then on and on over the rooftops of the city.

It's a remarkable place, not only for its coziness and the lovingly cared-for vegetation but for the fact that, just like Rosaline's bookshop, it seems to radiate _peace_. It feels like a retreat from the world, the noise and bustle happening just two floors below altogether forgotten up here save for the occasional sound of a car honking, or an ambulance siren in the distance.

Sitting down on the chair closer to the little garden, Benvolio takes a deep breath, taking in the scents wafting from the herbs behing him – mint and lavender and something vaguely citrus-y – that make him feel calm and awake all at the same time.

Then he gets out his phone and calls Mercutio.

“Where _the_ _fuck_ are you, Ben?”

As expected, Mercutio sounds close to blowing up. His oldest friend and now agent is positively buzzing with energy at the quietest of times, always looking for the next opportunity, the next connection, or at the very least, the next party. Now, several hours into what's shaping up to become the second-biggest crisis of Benvolio's private and professional life, Mercutio is firing on all engines – and he's not pleased at Benvolio's decision to go on radio silence for most of the afternoon.

“In London.”

“I know you're in London – I _hope_ you're in London, in fact, because that's where you're _supposed_ to be. But why aren't you where you're _actually_ supposed to be, which is at your hotel?”

“I had to get out.”

“Get out where?”

“I'm in Shoreditch. Staying with... a friend.” Well, at least he hopes he is.

“A _friend_? Please don't tell me you're with that insufferable English guy from the Wonder Studios crossover thing?”

“No, not him. It's... no one you know. Look, it doesn't matter where I am, okay? I'm somewhere quiet where the media won't find me, and that's all that matters right now. Now tell me – what the hell is going on?”

Mercutio pauses for a moment, perhaps not willing to give up trying to find out where he is just yet, then he sighs – and before he even starts talking, Benvolio can tell that whatever he's about to hear won't be pleasant.

Several minutes later, Benvolio staggers downstairs again, feeling so heavy that he feels like he could plunge straight through the floor to the shop below.

For once, it seems the media have not exaggerated: The situation is exactly as bad as it looks. His uncle, the man who raised him and built his career and still, somehow, runs his life like he did when Benvolio was just a child, is a criminal. And Benvolio is one of his victims.

His relationship with his uncle has never been the easiest, but Benvolio has always forced himself to believe that his uncle wanted the best for him, deep down, even if their opinions of what “the best” _is_ have differed more and more lately. Now, he's found out that he was wrong about that: His uncle, one of the last few people he has left in the world, has never cared about him – only about the money he's making.

“So?”

Rosaline's voice startles him when he emerges from the narrow stairway, restrained curiosity mixed in with genuine worry, and Benvolio finds her emerging from the kitchen. The cups and teapot are gone from the coffee table, so he guesses she just got done clearing them away.

“Looks like they were right. My uncle stole from me, and from a bunch of other people too.”

“So what's going to happen now?”

Benvolio shrugs.

"I should probably head back to the hotel, meet up with the studio's PR people.” It's not what she meant, he's sure, but it's the only thing he can think of now. He doesn't know what to do with the knowledge that his uncle betrayed him like that, doesn't even know where to begin rebuilding his life after that. So he sticks to the parts where people have already left him instructions on what to do: The studio, and the press, and his public image. “Mercutio says they're planning a press conference tomorrow, and he'll probably manage to fly in to support me."

"A press conference! Just you, facing a room full of journalists?"

Rosaline sounds shocked, but her horror scenario is probably not all that inaccurate. He imagines it for a moment, grimaces.

"Me and an army of PR people, hopefully. Still, it won't be pleasant."

"Then why do it?"

"Because the studio thinks it's the best way to move forward."

"And what do _you_ think?"

Another question that seems so simple but makes him draw a complete blank. What does he think? Well, he's still not done thinking a million things a minute, so he isn't sure how to answer that question.

"Or rather, what do you _want_?"

That seems to be the right question, for Benvolio's answer comes out before he's even had time to think about it.

"I don't want to do _anything._” It feels incredibly freeing to admit it. “I want to hide until this whole thing is over."

"Then do that. Forget about the press, or the studio – this is your private life, and you should be allowed to deal with it in the way that's best for you."

There it is again, that fierce tone – Benvolio can practically hear the echo of _“screw the studio”_ on her voice, see her determination in her knit brows. She looks like she's ready to go to battle for him, and he wishes with a sudden ache that he really could be someone she'd consider worth fighting for.

He smiles tiredly.

"Right now, you seem to be the only one who thinks so. The moment I set foot in the hotel, they'll be all over me."

"Maybe you shouldn't go back to the hotel then." She pauses, as if deciding something, then she blurts out: "You can stay here if you like."

For a moment after the words burst out, they're both silent, both frozen in surprise – although judging by her sudden tense stance, there's a good deal of embarrassment mixed in with her surprise. That, or she's already regretting the offer.

"You sure about that?" It's his attempt to give her a way out, but Rosaline doesn't even consider it before she nods, again with that determined set of her chin.

"Yes. You can stay here as long as you need.” Then her expression softens a bit, shifts into a sheepish smile. “I'm warning you though, the pull-out couch probably won't look great compared to the kind of comfort you'd get at a five star hotel."

“I honestly could not care less,” Benvolio replies, only realising belatedly that he's smiling – a smile of gratitude and relief, to match the relief sweeping through him as it sinks in: He doesn't have to go back out there yet, doesn't have to do anything he isn't ready for.

For now, he's safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the plot is very much still a mess. I'll figure it out, I hope, and in the meantime, please just don't look at it too closely?


	4. I will not hurt like this forever, I'm responding to the call

She must be high, Rosaline thinks. Maybe this morning, the cookies she sometimes buys from the new hipster coffee shop at the corner were laced with something more than just an unhealthy amount of sugar.

Because what other explanation could there be for the fact that she just asked _Benvolio Montague_ if he wanted to crash on her couch?

She tries to cover it up with a joke and Benvolio jokes back and for a moment, she thinks that maybe that's all it was to him: A joke, an impossibility.

Then he looks at her with those bright, earnest eyes, and says:

“I'd love to stay, and I could really use a hideout.” 

Okay, Rosaline thinks and tries to remind herself to breathe. So he's staying. In her apartment, that could really use a thorough dusting before she invites people to stay over – particularly people who, she assumes, are used to the height of luxuy.

But then, it doesn't seem like he cares about that type of thing, at least not in the moment. And that's what's important here, not whether or not he approves of her apartment: Right now, he's not a superstar, he's just a person in a bad situation who needs help. The thought makes her snap out of her panicked stupor and back into herself. Handling an international media frenzy? Luckily, she has zero experience with that. But managing a family crisis? Well, that she can do.

“Is there anyone else you might need to call? Your lawyer maybe?” 

“Well, the person handling my family's legal issues was my aunt, and she might be involved in my uncle's scheme so... I guess I don't have a lawyer.”

“Maybe your agent can sort that out too.”

“He's probably already on it.”

“That's good.” Her reply sounds painfully stilted, and Rosaline scrambles for another question to ask. “What about your cousin?”

His cousin Romeo might be even more famous than Benvolio, shooting to boyband fame in his early teens and transitioning with surprising success into a solo career after the band's inevitable decline.

“He's...” there's a pause that's just a heartbeat too long to mean nothing, “...off the grid. Her's spending some time at a spiritual retreat, and they have a strict no-phone-policy.” 

That sounds strange – although of course, Rosaline has no idea if maybe “spiritual retreats” are a perfectly common thing in Benvolio's world.

“Even for emergencies?”

“You can call the place if there's something really serious going on, but that would be if a loved one had died or was hospitalized or something. Of course I'll make sure he has all the information he needs before he gets back. But as long as I don't know what's really going on, I don't want him to get spooked. I'm pretty sure the media will be after him too, so it's better for him to stay hidden away as long as possible.” 

Rosaline nods.

“You're probably right about that.” 

Another awkward pause, during which Rosaline is starting to feel more and more useless. It's clear that he's hurting and confused, but there's no use pretending that she can relate at all to what he's going through right now, so there's nothing she can think of to say that would help.

But there is one thing she can offer.

“Do you want to talk about it?” 

To her relief, he doesn't immediately decline the offer.

“I don't even know what to say about it yet. I mean, what do you say when the person who's been the closest thing to a father to you does something like that?”

She isn't sure if it's a rhetorical question, but if it wasn't, she still has no answer for him, and she hates it.

Acting on impulse – again – Rosaline steps forward to lay a hand on his wrist, squeezing it gently (and only a little awkwardly, she thinks).

“I don't know what to tell you, except that I'm sorry. I'm so sorry this is happening to you, and if I could do anything to help, I would.”

There's something strange flitting across his face again that she can't quite interpret, but then it turns into a soft smile.

“You're already helping, Rosaline.” 

His free hand finds hers over his wrist to squeeze back, and Rosaline feels herself flush again – although not entirely out of embarrassment: This time, there's some pride mixed in there too... and something else as well, judging by the little shock that goes through her when his thumb gently brushes along the back of her hand. The movement is slow and dragging, seeming to freeze them in time for several heartbeats before Rosaline clears her throat and steps back.

“Of course. You'd do the same for me.” 

This would be the perfect time for a distraction, something urgent that needs doing that would get her out of the immediate vicinity of her surprise visitor with his sad eyes and warm hands, because that way lies danger. But Rosaline can't think of anything, completely forgetting the very obvious until Benvolio points it out:

“What about the shop? It's been closed for some time, but if you want to open it up again, I'll be fine on my own for a while.” 

The shop! She completely forgot about that over Benvolio's unexpected arrival, but of course, she really should get back down there again. There are only about two hours left until closing time, but still, she ought to make the most of those two hours.

“I really should. Make yourself at home up here – the TV's a bit crap, but feel free to pick anything from the bookshelf. And there should be some food in the fridge, if you're hungry.” 

“What about you?”

“I've had a sandwich for lunch. I'll eat later.”

“I could cook something. Earn my keep.” 

“You can cook?” That's surprising. 

“I'm a little out of practice, but I know some basics. And I watch a lot of cooking shows during breaks on set.”

“Well, I'm curious to see what you'll whip up then.”

“I'll do my best.” He embellishes the words with a silly little bow, and Rosaline laughs and descends the stairs with a smile, almost ready to forget about the weirdness of the entire situation. 

***

With a laugh at his antics that makes him more than a little proud, Rosaline disappears down the stairs, and just like that, Benvolio is alone with his thoughts. And there are a lot of those, even hours after he first heard the news.

He just can't get over th fact that apparently, his uncle stole from so many people who trusted him. From his own family. From people in need, if Mercutio's report that the funds for the Nightingale Project were hit as well is true. Benvolio has only started the charity about a year ago, and the thought that all the work he's put into it may have been for nothing is almost the worst thing about this whole mess.

The absolute worst is the fact that his uncle's actions confirm a suspicion that Benvolio has held for a long time, and alwas struggled to push back against because it's simply too painful to believe: That his uncle never cared for him as a person, let alone a kind of second son, but only ever saw him as an asset in the family fortune.

Their relationship has never been the easiest – Damiano Montague is notoriously hard to please, constantly driving Benvolio and – to a lesser extent – Romeo to push themselves for their careers. One more season of his breakout show when he wanted to quit. One more casting call when he was in danger of ending as a burned-out former child star. One more photo shoot, promo appearance, ad campaign. Always more, more, more. And Benvolio went along with it, hoping that one day, if only he worked hard enough, it would finally be enough; that his uncle would stop pushing him on and tell him that he did good, that he's proud of him the way he knows his parents would be, if they were still alive.

Now he finally sees how futile that hope was: Nothing will ever be enough for his uncle, and least of all him.

That's the sad, hard truth of his life, a truth that has impacted so much of it, and he doesn't know what to do about it. He's sure there might be consequences he could draw from this, decisions he could make – but he has no idea where to even start with that. And more importantly, right now, he doesn't have the strength. 

He doesn't want to examine any other aspects of his life, afraid of what other truths he might find. 

And maybe, a voice in his head that sounds a little like Rosaline suggests, maybe that's okay. Maybe he can allow himself a little time to just let everything sink in and not think, not decide anything except for a few absolutely necessary things: He needs a lawyer - one text to Mercutio will thankfully take care of that - and he needs to make a decision about Romeo. Neither he nor Mercutio thought it was a good idea to tell him about what's going on, but Benvolio still has a bad feeling about leaving his cousin in the dark. What if he gets dragged into the investigation too? What if he was victimized as well? What if he wasn't, and he decides that he'd rather side with his father than with Benvolio?

The thought alone makes him feel sick.

But that's another thing he can't do much about now. He'll write an e-mail to the... spiritual retreat, as he called it for Rosaline's sake, letting them know what's going on here and what to prepare Romeo for should any of it get through to him.

Other than that, there's nothing he can do, at least not for himself. So maybe he should do something for someone else – he did promise to earn his keep, after all.

When Rosaline comes back upstairs two hours later, Benvolio has managed to whip up - well, not quite a feast, but a respectable meal at least from what little he has managed to scrounge together in Rosaline's kitchen, eggs and cream and cheese and potatoes. He's made a mental note to find a grocery store that does deliveries tomorrow so he'll have a little more to work with, but today, the best he could do was potatoes au gratin. The real piece de resistance is dessert in any case, because Rosaline may not have much in stock but she does have chocolate, and lots of it. Hand-whipping a fluffy mousse au chocolat is just the workout he needs today, and Rosaline's surprised face at the set dinner table when she returns upstairs is compensation enough for his efforts.

“This is amazing," she comments on the very first bite, much to his ego's liking. "Much better than what I usually have on the menu.” 

“What do you usually have?”

Rosaline shrugs.

“Convenience food. Scrambled eggs and toast. Leftovers from the weekend, if Juliet and Livia have been by for Sunday roast.” 

“That's almost as sad as my regular fare.” 

This prompts an incredulous laugh.

“You don't get to eat well? Don't you have like, a gourmet chef on call?” 

“I do have a personal chef. But he's under strict instructions from my dietician: No dark meat. No carbs. No sugar, no trans fats, no processed foods....” 

“Seriously?” 

Benvolio nods.

“Chase Adams has an _eight_-pack. You don't get that by eating like a normal person.” 

“So you're just... always on a diet?”

“Most of the time, yes, and especially leading up to a shoot. Then, my entire life is basically just working out and learning lines, with a few promo events thrown in throughout.” 

“You know, you hear about the pressure actresses get to stay thin, but I never thought about the fact that actors would get the same crap.”

“I mean, I don't get it nearly as bad as my female colleagues. At least I usually don't have tabloids lying in wait to get unflattering pictures of me so they can publish them to bodyshame me. And I don't want it to seem like I'm complaining – it is part of my job to look like that. It's kind of like putting on the costume.”

"Wow. That's... got to be a weird part of the job." She pauses, unsuccessfully trying to hide a note of pity from her voice, before her face brightens. "But hey, at least you won't need an eight-pack to play Macbeth!" 

"Depending on the director, I just might... But that's not happening anyway." 

"You didn't get the part?" 

"I didn't even try out for it yet. The casting call hasnt come out so far. Mercutio's contacts say the project's being postponed indefinitely."

"I'm sorry to hear that. But hey, if it's not Macbeth, I'm sure there are other literary projects you could tackle. An Austen adaptation, maybe." 

"Austen, huh? You think the world's ready for me as the next Darcy?" 

Worryingly, this makes Rosaline laugh out loud. 

"Darcy? I'm sorry, but I'm not sure I'm getting the brooding, emotionally stunted type from you.”

Benvolio isn't sure whether he should take that as a compliment or not.

"Well, who would you cast me as?"

"If anything, you'd be more of a Bingley."

"Bingley?"

"He's a good guy."

"Well, yeah, but he's not exactly memorable either. If I'm not allowed to try my hand at playing Darcy, at least give me someone a little more interesting to work with. An Edward Ferrars, at least."

"The guy who strings poor Elinor along while he's already secretly engaged?!"

"Well, he wasn't even sure if that enggagement was still on. But at least he's got a little bit more conflict in his storyline. His entire life is being dictated by other people, and in the end he still manages to get his way and get the girl."

There's a pause after he says it while Rosaline just studies him silently, and he wonders if he said too much, if she heard just how much he can identify with someone like that.

He also wonders why he feels the sudden urge to tell her.

But before he can give in, she sighs.

"You know, now you've made me want to rewatch Sense and Sensibility. Again."

"The Ang Lee version?"

"Obviously. It's the best one."

"Well, let's watch it then."

"Really?"

"Why not? I haven't watched it in ages."

That decision made, they quickly clear and wash the dishes before settling in on the couch to watch the movie – which Benvolio really hasn't watched in years but remembers enjoying enough to actually read the book afterwards.

Soon, he's caught up again in the story, so much that it actually startles him a little when Rosaline speaks up next to him.

“You know, Lizzie Bennet may be the most popular Austen heroine, but I've always had a soft spot for Elinor.”

He tears his eyes away from a beautifully composed landscape shot to look over at Rosaline, whose eyes are still on the screen, her expression thoughtful. He remembers the first impression he had of her when they first met, of quiet, unceasing strength and determination, and thinks that he can see why that particular heroine would speak to her. Her resigned little smile when she mentioned how hard it was to keep the bookshop afloat, proud enough not to sound self-pitying. Her fierce insistence that he actually buy something and not just hang out. And hidden behind that steely outer shell: A core of warmth and compassion, and a sarcastic wit to boot.

“I can see why.”

She turns her head to look at him questioningly, but Benvolio chooses not to elaborate, turning back towards the screen again to watch the drama unfold, and whatever question was on Rosaline's mind doesn't make it past her lips.

Silence descends for a little while, comfortably filled with the movied, and interrupted only by the occasional observation.

“You're right, you know,” Rosaline observes after a particularly awkward scene involving the lovers and their scheming interloper, “Edward Ferrars does have a little bit more hidden depth than Bingley. Still, in the end, he just sort of falls into his happy ending due to luck, Elinor's intervention, and the Colonel's help.”

“So?”

“So, I for one would prefer a hero who had to work for his happy ending. To grow and learn.”

“Granted, that would be more interesting. But hey, this way, you get a heroine who gets to take action instead.”

“That's certainly a nice change of pace from many movies, yes.”

“There you go.”

The conversation continues in the same vein, with Rosaline making observations and inviting Benvolio's opinions, and he soon finds himself more engrossed in analysing the movie than actually watching it. He enjoys Rosaline's takes on characters and storylines even when he disagrees with them, and it's a fun challenge trying to think how he would have played certain scenes, conveyed specific emotions – that's the professional part of him, on perfectly safe ground.

The _other_ part of him is anything but professional, noticing instead how Rosaline's eyes blaze when she makes a particularly passionate argument; watching her gesture animatedly and wondering what else she might be this passionate about. It's a dangerous road to go down, and he only allows himself to do so until the movie is over.

Next to him, Rosaline stretches and breaks into a wide yawn that doesn't seem to want to end, chuckling sheepishly when it finally does.

“I'm sorry, I guess I'm pretty tired.”

“Better get to bed then.”

“I don't want to be a bad hostess though.”

“Don't worry about it – I've got enough to keep me entertained here even if the jetlag keeps me up.”

Rosaline nods through another yawn.

“Let's get the sofa ready for you then.”

She leaves for a room at the other end of the living-room, her bedroom presumably, and returns shortly after with blankets and sheets.

“Help me pull out the couch, will you?”

She pauses immediately after she's said it, looking a little sheepish.

“I guess that's not a sentence you hear at the Ritz.”

“Not exactly. But then, that's why the Ritz charges 3500 pounds a night.”

Rosaline freezes midway through stuffing a pillow in a flowery pillowcase, mouth open.

“3500? A _night_?”

Benvolio nods, suddenly feeling stupid for bringing it up. She's hinted that money is tight at the bookshop – was it really necessary to rub his own wealth in her face?

But Rosaline doesn't seem offended, or at least not by him.

“You realize that's a month's rent on an apartment? A nice one, too.”

He doesn't know what to say to that. Theoretically, he's aware that his world must seen crazy to a normal person, everything about it completely out of proportion. And, just as theoretically, he's also aware that, in a world with so much poverty and suffering, living like that is questionable at best. But usually, everyone around it is so used to living the same way that no one ever points it out. No one looks at him like Rosaline does right now, and makes him wonder what on earth he's done to justify his good fortune.

But if he expects a dressing-down from her, or an expression of disgust, he's relieved to find her skipping it, instead bending over to lift the edge of the pull-out couch and gesturing for him to do the same on the other side.

“Careful, the hinges are a little stuck...” She walks him through the process, a two-person job due to said stuck hinges, and then puts the sheets on the mattress. Benvolio heroically only gives in to the temptation to watch her for a few seconds, following the line of her long legs and shapely backside as she bends over the couch, and then feeling thoroughly guilty about it. 

_Get a grip,_ he tells himself –  _she's helping you; she's not here to be ogled_ . 

He distracts himself by changing the cover of the blanket, something he can't remember doing... ever. Accordingly, it turns into quite the struggle, and by the time he finally emerges from the cover, sweaty and dishevelled, he finds Rosaline watching him with an amused grin.

“Wow. That was... impressive. I think we're going to need to teach you some normal people-skills while you're here. Otherwise you'll be completely fucked if you ever end up somewhere that isn't the Ritz.”

He chuckles at the ribbing, good-natured and ultimately true, he has to admit – he really has no idea how to do normal stuff. Except cook. He can cook, and he'll prove it again the next day with something more impressive, he tells himself.

Rosaline, meanwhile, disappears into the mystery room once more and returns with two towels which she thrusts at him, along with a fresh toothbrush.

“Unfortunately, this is the only thing I can help you out with...” 

“I'll call the hotel tomorrow, ask them to discreetly send over some stuff.”

“Good idea.”

There's a short pause, both of them wondering if there's anything else to say.

“Alright then, I should...“

“You know, I really meant to...“

They both start talking at the same time, then break off to laugh in unison.

”You first,“ Rosaline decides.

“I wanted to thank you.”

“You don't need to do that."

“Yes, I do. Not just for letting me stay – for everything. This has been a much better day than I expected to have. So, thank you.”

“It was my pleasure, really. Now no more thank-you's.” 

“If you insist.” 

“Now, thank-you dinners on the other hand...” Rosaline smiles impishly.

“Are welcome?”

“_Very_ welcome.” 

“Duly noted.”

Her smile holds for a moment, and Benvolio lets the moment last, lets its warmth wash over him and thanks a God he hasn't talked to in some time for bringing him here, to this little bookshop in East London, and this extraordinary woman. 

“Goodnight, Rosaline.”


	5. Break me off a piece of that / and mix it in with a little wine / with someone warm and smart, I guess

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally managed another chapter! Life was a lot lately.  
I'm trying to set Rosaline's and Benvolio's speech apart a little bit, since one of them is an English native speaker and the other one American - but since I'm neither, I have no idea if I'm succeeding or if I'm just turning Rosaline into a cockney caricature. If that's happening, please tell me.

The next day Benvolio wakes late in the morning, disoriented but at least well-rested. There's no sign of Rosaline, but a glance at the clock on the mantelpiece tells him she's probably downstairs in the shop, and a note on the table confirms it. It makes sense, of course - Rosaline can't afford to go without several days' income just because he's decided to drop by. Still, he selfishly wonders if he can persuade her to close early again so they can hang out and continue their conversation about literary adaptations. Maybe if he offered to compensate her for the business she's losing? But he has a feeling she would not take kindly to that suggestion.

Instead, he makes himself some tea and toast as per the instructions on Rosaline's note. The breakfast, an indulgence in carbs, does its part to wake him up, and the only thing missing from a morning that feels almost like a fresh start are fresh clothes to go with it. For now, all he can do is call the hotel and ask them to send over his clothes, which they promise to do as soon as possible - and, he hopes, discreetly as well.

It's a little too early to call Mercutio for news, so a quick scroll through the web's most notorious gossip pages will have to be enough to keep him updated. So far though, there don't seem to be any substantial new developments, only more speculation on the few facts he already knew yesterday. Nothing he can work with right now, he decides, and turns his attention once more to Rosaline's apartment. Simply browsing the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves covering three walls of her living-room is an adventure that takes up the rest of the morning, and by the time he's done - with a sizeable to-read-pile on the table before him - Rosaline is emerging from the bookshop with his suitcase and a puzzled expression.

"Someone dropped this off downstairs and said it was for a Mister MacDuff."

"That would be me. I always check in under a fake name."

"Right."

Rosaline looks for a moment as if she wanted to comment on this information, then she seems to decide against it.

"Did you sleep well?"

"Really well. Your sofa can definitely hold its own against the bed at the Ritz."

"I'm not so sure about that - but I am glad to hear it. And you made yourself some breakfast as well."

"Yes. I also made myself at home and browsed your bookshelves for a bit - I hope that's okay."

"Of course! We've already established you're not a book thief, so take anything you like."

It's a perfectly nice offer, but there's a slightly forced cheerfulness behind her voice that reminds Benvolio of the weirdness of their situation. Apparently, Rosaline must have noticed it too - she drops the hostess smile and just asks straight on:

"Any news about your uncle?"

"Nothing - but it is still early in the morning there. I'm sure I'll hear something later."

He does hear more indeed, a few hours later when Mercutio calls, fresh off his usual triple shot of espresso, to update him – and to provide a fresh dilemma for him to ponder.

He's still not finished doing so when Rosaline comes back upstairs, and despite his best efforts, she seems to notice right away.

“What's the matter?”

“They've posted bail for my uncle's release.” A pause before the actual news. “His lawyer has approached me to pay for it.”

“You?! He has the nerve to ask _you_, after what he did?”

Once again, Rosaline is immediately ready to be outraged on his behalf – and once again, Benvolio is stupidly charmed by it.

“Well, his lawyer mentioned that if I wouldn't do it, he'd approach Romeo.”

Understanding passes across Rosaline's face, and Benvolio is relieved – he won't have to explain why that's a spectacularly bad idea.

“And you didn't want him to have to deal with that.”

Benvolio nods. “Exactly.”

He turns towards the stove to take off the finished pasta, drain it, and get started on the lemon butter he intends to drizzle over it, which will hopefully go perfectly with the herb-and-pine nut crusted salmon he's got baking in the oven.

“So basically, he's blackmailing you into helping him.”

Benvolio has tried all afternoon not to think about it like that, but of course, that's exactly what's happening. His throat tightens at hearing his earlier thought spoken aloud, and Benvolio is glad that opening the oven and taking out the finished salmon gives him an excuse to duck away from Rosaline's shrewd gaze.

“What a wanker!” With that colourful outburst out of the way, Rosaline sighs. “But I guess you'll still pay?”

“I already told Mercutio to pay.” He smiles ruefully while setting the salmon out on two plates Rosaline got from the cupboard. “What else was I supposed to do?”

“How much was it?”

“Two million.”

“_Real _Dollars_?_”

Benvolio nods, once again embarrassed to meet Rosaline's eyes – she must think he's such a coward.

“On the condition that my cousin won't be bothered with any of this.”

Plating the food comes next, a task he carries out with a lot more focus than it really requires; carefully arranging the pasta around the salmon fillets and delicately drizzling the melted butter over the plate one drop at a time.

Rosaline's hand on his shoulder startles him out of his concentration, and Benvolio looks up to find her standing next to him, once again sporting that soft expression that somehow manages to calm him down and start a storm inside him at the same time.

“That was really big of you, Benvolio. Not everyone would do something like that, not even for family.”

She sounds like she's speaking from experience, but Benvolio is too distracted with his own emotional turmoil to decide if now would be a good time to further ponder that observation. Instead, he's basking in the warmth of her eyes, the pride in her voice, and marvelling at the fact that it's for him, for making a decision that wasn't even all that difficult.

It's quite a lot to deal with, he finds, especially after the events of the past day have already left him feeling raw and emotional.

Summoning his best Chase Adams, he flashes her an easy grin and picks up the two plates to carry them over to the table to set them down with a comically exaggerated flourish.

“Nothing another Chase Adams-sequel won't earn me back.”

The thought turns his grin into a gruelling task – he was just about to ask Mercutio to stop negotiations for the fifth Chase Adams movie. It seems he'll have to rethink that plan, especially if the Nightingale Foundation really was hurt by his uncle's schemes.

Still, there's no point worrying about that now, before he knows more – and a petulant part of him doesn't want to think about it anymore, not when Rosaline is finally here to talk to. And the last thing he wants to talk about with her is his uncle – not when there's so much more to explore with her, literature and art and life itself. His uncle almost lost him the opportunity to spend time with Rosaline once before – he's not going to let that happen again.

He sits down across the table from her, watching her eye the food with unabashed delight, and his next smile comes easier already.

“Now, sit down, eat, and tell me about today's most obnoxious customers.”

Rosaline hesitates, looking for a moment as if she wants to continue their earlier topic. Then she seems to decide against it, to Benvolio's relief, and launches right into a story about a young customer trying to mansplain the very topic of her master's thesis to her.

The story is followed by other similarly strange encounters with eccentric customers – some infuriating, some downright hilarious, and all told by Rosaline with verve and biting humour, and soon, thoughts of his uncle and the extent of damage his greed may have caused fade into the background.

Of course, Rosaline's stories aren't just lighthearted entertainment. Too apparent are the not-so-fun aspects of her business ownership – the hard work, the financial pressure, the fear of failing her parents' dream. She tries not to say anything outright, but those hardships shine through too many of her stories for him not to ask.

“It must be tough, keeping the shop afloat by yourself.”

She hesitates, her face almost closing off for a moment, before she nods and meets his eyes once more.

“It is,” she admits, and it feels like an honor. “Things aren't exactly easy for independent shops these days. I try to set myself apart from the competition, and I have some regulars that give me hope, but still, sometimes I wonder if it's really worth it.” She laughs nervously, takes a long sip of her wine. “And then of course I immediately feel guilty because this was my parents' dream; this is what they fought for. If I give up on it, there's no one left to take care of it.”

“What about your sister?”

“She's in med school, and that's exactly where she belongs. She's great with people and super smart, but she does not have head for business.” Another long sip, a forlorn look into the middle distance – Rosaline is working something over in her head, and he intends to give her the time to do so. “I mean, not that I'm much better at it – I didn't exactly study economics or accounting or anything useful like that. But I've always been the sensible one – I just have to remind myself of that from time to time.”

“How so?”

“Well, sometimes I'm tempted to stock the shop exclusively with authors and subjects I personally like, instead of paying at least a little bit of attention to what's currently selling well.”

“How is that a bad thing? You actually know what you're talking about, and you have a great selection. I'm sure that's what your regulars come back for, and not just the stuff that sells well. You should stick to your strengths.”

She looks at him for a moment, smiling pensively.

“That's very optimistic of you.”

“That's me being one hundred percent convinced that you're doing the right thing, even if it may not always feel like it's paying off. And maybe I have no idea what I'm talking about, but I still think it's the right approach. After all, I'm guessing your parents didn't start the shop in order to get rich but because they had an idea of what they wanted to offer to the world.”

“They wanted to give different voices a chance than the ones considered important in our family's social circles – immigrants, workers, women. They felt like the country, the _world_, would never become a better place unless those voices were being heard, and they wanted to do their part to make that happen.”

“And all these years later, it's still happening. _You_ are still making it happen. So whenever you're worried about letting them down, that's what you should remind yourself of. You're still here, fighting for their dream. I'm sure they would be proud of you.”

Another smile, although this one seems a little less sardonic, and her eyes are shining a little brighter than they did before.

“I hope they would be, yes.”

She seems like she wants to add something but inadvertently cuts herself off with a yawn instead, and Benvolio laughs.

“I think we've chatted enough – it's about time for hard-working people such as yourself to go to bed.”

Rosaline nods, failing to stifle a second yawn, and gets to her feet. She's already reaching out to start clearing away the plates when he stops her.

“I'll clear this away. You just go to bed now so you'll be rested and ready to battle chauvinistic customers again tomorrow.”

“Let's hope it won't come to that,” Rosaline replies wrily, but the fact that she doesn't protest when he takes her by the shoulders and gently steers her out the kitchen tells him she really is tired.

Still, she turns around briefly by the kitchen door to smile at him once more.

“Thank you for dinner, and for the lovely evening.”

“Thank you for sharing it with me.”

It sounds cheesier than anticipated, but Rosaline doesn't seem to notice or care. She only nods blearily and shuffles off towards the bathroom, and Benvolio looks after her and wonders if she's aware just how much he meant it.

He had a lovely evening as well, and it wasn't just because it successfully distracted him from his uncle – it was because of her, he knows, and tries to ignore the ache in his gut that comes with the knowledge.

It doesn't work entirely.

***

The next day, Benvolio gives in to the temptation of Rosaline's bookcase again, working his way through yesterday's selection while sipping tea and nibbling on a batch of cookies he baked because Rosaline mentioned she likes them. He should be studying lines for his next project, a crossover movie where Chase Adams teams up with some more of the studio's heroes to bring down an old enemy, but compared to the literary pearls Rosaline has stacked in her apartment, the script is teeth-grindingly tedious to read.

Instead, he plows through the rest of the book he started the day before and one third of another, and when Rosaline returns upstairs, she finds him still entirely engrossed in the novel of his choice, one that looked particularly worn and loved, which he took to mean that it's one of Rosaline's favorites. In any case, it's an enthralling read, and he doesn't even hear Rosaline come up until she's standing before him, craning her head to read the title of the book.

“That's one of my favourites!”

“I figured – it looks like it.”

“How do you like it so far?”

“I haven't been able to put it down from the first page. You have great taste.”

She looks away, a little flustered at the compliment, which Benvolio finds so adorable it makes him feel flustered in turn.

“So,” he sets the book aside and sits up from his reclined position, comfortably sprawled across the armchair he occupied with a little thrill of awareness that it's Rosaline's spot, "how was your day? Get a chance to kick out any annoying hipsters?”

“Contrary to your belief, I don't usually kick out my customers.”

“Oh? I'll consider it an honor that you singled me out for special treatment then.”

He smiles impishly, aware that he's flirting and, sadly, also aware that it's probably a bad idea – but Rosaline smiles and shoots back:

“Consider it a sign that you were being particularly rude.”

He laughs and gets to his feet, enjoying the way her eyes widen a little when it brings him suddenly very close to her – and enjoying it even more when she still doesn't move away from him.

“You are one strict shop-keeper.” He stays close for just one more heartbeat, one languid smile, before he pushes past her to head to the kitchen. “And I am neglecting my duties. I completely forgot to make dinner over my reading.”

“I told you before, you _really_ don't have to...,” Rosaline protests, trailing after him, but he cuts her off.

“Yes, I do. You've been working all day, while I've done nothing but lounge around and read. You deserve to sit down and rest.”

Taking her by the shoulder, he steers her back to her armchair in the living-room.

“What are you in the mood for?”

“I don't know – whatever you manage to come up with.”

“I'll see what I can do.”

“So you've been reading all day? Didn't you mention a script you had to study?”

Rosaline's words make him freeze in place.

“I did, but I couldn't bring myself to practice Chase's snappy one-liners when there's this all around me!” He opens his arms and makes a sweeping motion towards the tall bookshelves, and Rosaline smiles, tired but proud.

“I'm glad you're enjoying my collection.” But all too quickly, her face turns stern again. “Still, you shouldn't neglect your work. Should we...,” she breaks off, as if deciding whether or not to finish the sentence, “would it help if I read your lines with you?”

“That would help a lot!”

He's perhaps exaggerating a little, doubtful that he'll do his best learning the lines while he's distracted in the kitchen – but he has a scene coming up where Chase faces off against his archnemesis, and the thought of having Rosaline read all those hammy, over-the-top lines is too entertaining to resist.

He hands her his iPad, which arrived from the hotel along with his clothes, unlocks it and pulls up the app that holds his scripts – highly encrypted and password-protected to prevent leaks. He's not even allowed to print out the scripts, even though he would find it much more helpful.

“Of course, if the studio finds out about it, they may have us both taken out.”

“What?”

Oh. Perhaps that joke was a little too alarming.

He pops his head out of the kitchen to flash her a reassuring grin. 

“They're very secretive. Their scripts keep being leaked. I had to sign about five non-disclosure agreements just to get the first few pages.”

“Should you be letting me see that stuff then?”

He shrugs. “You won't leak anything, I hope.”

“I wouldn't even know how.”

“Just put it on the internet.”

“Are you trying to encourage me?”

He chuckles, and she flashes him a smile back and makes a shooing notion as if to drive him towards the kitchen.

“Now, I believe I was promised dinner.”

“I'll get right to it. And I was promised a partner to read my lines.”

“Just let me have a quick readthrough before I start.”

“Sure,” he calls back, busy getting out the ingredients for a quick and easy dinner. Luckily, he ordered plenty of groceries to have some options now.

Ten minutes later, with the rice cooker on autopilot and a vegetable curry set to simmer on the stove, Benvolio joins Rosaline in the living-room again.

“So, what do you think – will this one get me an Oscar?”

“Well it is certainly an intense scene. I'm sure you can do a lot with it, especially with all that homoerotic tension.”

“You picked up on that too?”

“Well, it was kind of hard not to. So Chase is getting a male love interest in the next movie?”

“Not bloody likely. The studio execs just want to have their cake and eat it too: Tease just enough to keep the LGBT community and more liberal fans wanting more but not so much that they risk alienatiung conservative audiences. I was hoping they were done with that whole spiel, but apparently not.”

“Seriously? What a shitty thing to do.”

He shrugs. “Yup. And all I can do is tell fans that I personally don't think it's necessary to label Chase's sexuality and that of course they can interpret his relationships however they want.”

“That's something though, right?”

“It's not enough. Not when I get letters from kids telling me how they're being bullied at school and how much it would mean to have just one hero who's like them.” He shrugs, feeling helplessly angry. “But I guess it's my own fault for signing up with a behemoth like Wonder Studios. They'll always need to go the road of least resistance, please as many people as possible.” He sighs. “But that's not a decision I get to make any time soon. I'm still signed on for one more Chase Adams movie, and there's no getting out of that contract."

“All the more reason to finally get to practicing those lines,” Rosaline declares, with a voice that suggests he's in for some work, and gets to her feet. “So, how do we do this?”

“Well, for now, you just need to read the lines. You can choose to do the stage instructions or just read, whatever you're more comfortable with.”

Rosaline nods, and for a while, it seems like reading will indeed be all she's comfortable with, standing somewhat stiffly in the middle of the room as she delivers her lines. But as the scene progresses and gets repeated, she loosens up a little, adds some more inflection to her words, some expression to her face, and even carries out some of the stage instructions, one of which includes disarming him and slamming him into a wall. It's a very physical scene, and it takes Rosaline a while to really get to terms with it.

“Are you sure this is okay?”, she asks after she's very gently nudged him in the direction of the wall.

“Of course it is. You can get more violent, you know – if it was too dangerous, they'd have the stunt doubles do it.”

Rosaline nods and tries again, puts a little more force behind her movements, voice dripping with disdain when she hurls her line into his face.

“You know, _Cowboy_, I keep hearing stories about how brave you are, how _selfless_... I think the reality is just that you're too _stupid_ to be afraid of anything.”

Benvolio flashes the famous Chase Adams-smile again, the quick, careless one he borrows for himself sometimes.

“It doesn't really matter though, does it? What matters is that I'm not afraid. Unlike you...”

The scene requires for his nemesis to crowd even closer and push him back against do wall with his arm, partially cutting off his air as he delivers another scathing remark. Understandably, Rosaline hesitates once more.

“It's really not that big a deal,” he encourages her and, because she doesn't seem convinced, takes her arm and puts it in position along his clavicle. “You just need to make sure not to apply pressure to my larynx.”

“Oh, is that all,” Rosaline sums up sarcastically, but she stays in position, tests it out for a few seconds. He nods encouragingly, and she continues with her line.

“You're a joke, Adams. And you're not saving anyone.” Rosaline grimaces, breaking out of character. “He's just so _mean_.”

“He is supposed to be the bad guy. You're doing great though. Who knows, you might have a talent for being mean yourself. Now is your chance to discover that talent.”

Rosaline laughs at his encouragement before focusing on the scene once more. She leans forward a little as she says her mean line, eyes narrowed, mouth curled into a derisive sneer – she's getting pretty good at this.

“You're a _joke_, Adams”, a long pause before she continues, drawing out the last words in particular. “And you're _Not_. _Saving. Any. One._”

Benvolio decides to let the words stand for a few moments, a silence that indicates the words are having an impact, making Chase doubt himself. What if his nemesis is right? What if he really is going to fail? Benvolio lets the thought penetrate his mind, mentally replacing it with the “what ifs” that scare him, personally.

At least, that's the plan.

But then he doesn't grasp onto the intended train of thought quickly enough and his mind takes a different track instead: It chooses to focus on the fact that Rosaline is right there, leaning so far into his personal space that he can smell her scent, books and coffee and that flowery perfume he noticed on his first visit. He also notices that her lips are slightly parted, perhaps to indicate the tension of the scene, her character's agitation – but it's all too easy to imagine different things that might make her breath quicken like that, make her lean in even further...

“Wow, you really are good. I thought this scene was a little cheesy, but the way you play it, it feels like it could really have some depth.”

Right. The scene. Acting.

That's what he was doing.

“Thanks.”

Apparently, he doesn't sound entirely convinced.

"I mean it, Benvolio. The way you played that scene, it really made me feel something." Oh, it made him _feel_ _something_ as well, but he doesn't think it's quite the same experience Rosaline had.

"It made me wonder what exactly their backstory is, and what the future might hold for them. Provided they don't kill each other, of course."

"You're not the only one wondering about that," he says, straightening a little to get away from the edge of the bookcase pressing into his back. The movement seems to remind Rosaline that they're still standing close, her arm still blocking his way out - not that he would feel the need to escape, if it weren't for that pesky bookcase. But now he's startled her into moving, and to his regret, Rosaline pulls back as he continues to explain. "Some of the fans are writing novel-length stories for the two of them, alternate versions of their stories that are much more creative than anything I expect the studio to come up with."

Rosaline looks like she'd want to hear more about that, but the timer he set on the rice cooker is beeping and he heads to the kitchen to see to the food instead.

He finishes seasoning the curry and plating the rice while Rosaline sets glasses and cutlery on the table, and when he emerges from the kitchen he finds her with a fresh bottle of wine in hand.

"Wine?"

He nods, and she starts pouring while he sets down a plate for each of them.

"You know, I couldn't help but notice that you sound a little... frustrated with your job, especially with Chase Adams."

"It's that obvious, huh? I'm sorry, I don't mean to be whiny. I know I'm incredibly lucky to have ended up where I am, playing such an iconic character. It's just that, sometimes, it's also incredibly limiting."

Rosaline listens silently while she eats, and once again Benvolio finds himself pouring his heart out against his better judgment.

"Chase is a fun character, but he could be so much more interesting if the studio wasn't so set on playing it safe. But instead of giving him some nuance, or a romance that deviates from the standard formula, or anything that would make for a surprise in the narrative, all of their creative decisions are based on market research, on tried and tested recipes, and on trying to please as many people as possible. At the end of the day, those movies are not about telling a story, they're about making money."

He sounds defeated, irritatingly whiny again, and he fully expects Rosaline to point out that he has no reason to bitch when those movies are making _him_ money as well. But instead, she stays silent for a moment, thinking, and then says:

"Not to everyone. You said it yourself: Your fans are writing you letters about how much the character means to them. They're making up their own stories. Who knows, some of them might go on to write their own movies in the future, movies where the heroes do get to have all the nuance Chase Adam's isn't allowed to have. So maybe you're doing a lot more with that character than you're giving yourself credit for."

For a moment, the words leave him stunned – it's not even much of a shift in perspective, but after what may have been months of wondering what the hell he's even contributing to the world at large, they're the first attempt at a satisfying answer. Maybe, in some small way, he is helping to make the world a little bit better.

The thought makes him giddy.

"You know, you should become a motivational speaker. You have a real way with words. "

Unfortunately, it seems his breathless compliment doesn't come across very genuine.

“Oh, bugger off.”

“I mean it, Rosaline. What you just said... it meant a lot. I hadn't thought about things that way.”

“Oh.” She's surprised, a little flustered, but not for long before she turns defiant again, chin lifting the slightest bit. “Well, you _should_ think about it like that.”

And that's that, he knows – Rosaline has decided it's time for him to stop broooding, so that's exactly what he'll do. 

“You did quite a good job before, by the way – have you acted before?”

Rosaline snorts into her curry.

“Not since eight grade. And that was an unmitigated disaster.”

“Oh, really,” Benvolio says, already grinning in anticipation of what he's sure will be an interesting story. “Do tell.”

“Well, it started when my sister and my cousin decided the best way to get the attention of their current crushes was to sign us all up for the annual school play...”

The story is a wild ride indeed, filled with more intrigue, passion, mortification and ultimate triumph than any of the world's greatest dramas, and Rosaline once again tells it with verve and impeccable comedic timing and soon has him nearly keeling over onto his plate with laughter.

“Okay, I'm changing my earlier assessment – you shouldn't become a motivational speaker, you should become a writer.”

An odd expression sneaks onto Rosaline's face at the words, turning her expression pensive.

“That's what I wanted to be, actually – back when I was still at uni. I even wrote a few short stories. But then,” she shrugs, helplessly, and he recognizes the sight of someone fighting back sadness when he sees it, “life got in the way.”

“It happens,” he only says, then gives her a moment to compose herself. Clearly, he struck a nerve without even intending to do so, and he feels bad about it now. “Who knows, you might get around to it someday.”

“Yeah,” Rosaline mumbles into her wineglass before she takes a long sip. “Maybe someday.”

Then she abruptly sets down the glass, pushes away her near-empty plate and gets to her feet.

“Now, let's get some more work done, shall we?”

His confusion must be showing on his face.

“Practicing your lines, of course. You're not trying to tell me what we did earlier was enough, right? Because I have to say, if that's the case, they really are paying you too much.”

Benvolio laughs and gets to his feet as well.

“Oh, I see – you're already getting into character again. Alright, Miss Capulet, time to be mean once more.”

With that, they launch right into a repetition of the scene they practiced earlier, followed by another and another and another. Rosaline seems more at ease with every repetition, and where she started out hesitant and afraid to hurt him, she's soon completely unfazed by the physical violence of the scene. Apparently, being a bad guy gets easier with time.

What doesn't get easier is having her lean in again with every repeat of the scene, her eyes sparkling at him, the scent of her perfume now laced with the spice of the curry and her lips still so wonderfully, temptingly close...

But that's not a temptation he can give into, he reminds himself – merely a byproduct of the writing, the scene's tension translating into more or less intended erotic subtext.

Yes, he reassures himself after the fifth time Rosaline pulls back and he nearly follows her, that's all this is – subtext.


	6. I let bad love betray me once / but I was barely outta high school then / And I guess I fear the same results / that none will take me as I am

They quickly settle into a routine: Benvolio – used to early morning shoots that have him in hair and make-up before sunrise – makes it a point to get up before Rosaline so he can put the kettle on. He doesn't dare interfere further with her tea ritual, but he learns that she's happy to let him take care of the rest of breakfast, and he takes full advantage of that in order to surprise her with a new breakfast treat every morning: Classic pancakes and maple syrup, eggs and bacon, porridge with fresh fruits... Mercutio would chide that he's really just looking for excuses to revolt against his dietician's regime, but Benvolio knows deep down it isn't about that, not really: It's about the way Rosaline's face lights up, a tired smile breaking up her grumpy expression. Rosaline, he soon learns, is not a morning person, and he hopes his efforts are making it a little easier for her to wake up and face the hard workday ahead.

And that it's going to be a hard day, he knows because she shared some insights into what it means to run a business all on her own. He even found out that she doesn't always eat lunch – her only reply to a question about her lunch habits was that she'd “pop into Tesco, if there's time”, without specifying how often there _isn't _time – and he immediately added preparing her a light lunch to his list of duties.

Still, the list remains short, and between cooking, studying for the next Chase Adams movie and talking to Mercutio about – very rare – news of his uncle's case, there's still plenty of time to kill. Eventually, even the literary riches in Rosaline's apartment aren't entirely enough to keep him from growing a little bored by mid-afternoon.

By the third day, he knows exactly when Rosaline closes the shop, and is down the stairs the moment he hears the loud rattle of the blinds being drawn, the signal that he's safe from being spotted.

He peruses the rows of shelves while Rosaline does the cashing-up for the day, followed by various other tasks. He offers his help, but Rosaline insists that she'll be quicker on her own, so he just watches her, noticing little details that make his fingers itch for a sketchpad because they're so vivid: Her little frown when she peers down at the register; the way her hair gets pulled in all directions when she's sitting in front of her laptop with the bookkeeping software, the dusty fingerprints on her jeans from where she's wiped her hands after rearranging some books on the shelves.

In the evenings, they have dinner in the cosy eating nook of Rosaline's living-room, talking about new developments in his uncle's case and Rosaline's customers of the day – but those things take up a little less space every day, replaced instead by other subjects: Benvolio's favourite memories of movie shoots and the strangeness of practically growing up in the spotlight; Rosaline's favourite trashy guilty pleasure reads and the various adventures her little sister and cousin seem get up to practically non-stop. They talk about things they love and things they hate and things they're afraid of until there's no more need to talk, at which point they quietly move on to clearing away the dishes, together because Rosaline insists on helping. Conversation has usually run thin by that point, but neither of them seems to care. It's easy to talk to Rosaline, but it's just as easy to simply _be_ with her, and Benvolio is quickly becoming addicted to both.

Somehow, Rosaline always seems to know when to keep pushing and when to draw back and leave him to his thoughts, and he tries to do the same: Give her space to talk about things that she's working on without pushing too far. Clearly, she has a lot on her plate, and sometimes he feels bad for imposing on her, but Rosaline never asks when he intends to leave and Benvolio selfishly doesn't bring the topic up either. Strange as their current state is, he doesn't want it to end. Not unless Rosaline asks him to.

Still, happy as he is to be hidden away from the world in Rosaline's apartment, Benvolio is slowly starting to get a touch of cabin fever. As soon as she's closing the shop for a day off, Benvolio decides, he'll suggest that they venture outside.

But Rosaline doesn't ever seem to take a day off, and after five days of staying in self-imposed exile without any indication that this might change eventually, Benvolio decides to intervene – for his own sake and for Rosaline's.

On his sixth morning, he waits for Rosaline in the kitchen as he does every morning, except this time, there's no breakfast prepared. The moment she emerges from her room, he announces:

“Capulet, you need to take a day off. You've been working every day straight for a week. No one can live like that.”

“I can. I do live like that.”

“Well, you shouldn't. It's not healthy. Besides, it's Sunday. I thought you weren't open on Sundays.”

“I decided to start opening on Sundays too. There's been a lot of weekend tourists lately, I can't afford to miss out on that business.”

She doesn't meet his eyes as she explains, tries to push past him to the fridge instead, but Benvolio blocks her path.

“Seriously? You're open all week?”

Another shrug. “It's not illegal.”

“Maybe it should be. You have to give yourself a break every now and then.”

After a confused glance around the kitchen, Rosaline seems to have noticed that there's no food or even hot water for her tea, and her mild resistance turns into full-blown irritation.

“Well, that's not really a choice I get to make these days. Not all of us can afford to drop off the face of the earth on a whim.”

The words come out harsh, and though they're true, Benvolio still rears back in surprise.

Rosaline's sleep-swollen eyes widen.

“I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have said that. I know you have your reasons for doing what you're doing. I just... don't have that option.”

Her shoulders slump a little, and Benvolio feels for her. She may not think so, but he does know what it's like to work hard, even if he isn't under the same kind of pressure as she is.

“I know that, and I didn't mean to make light of it. I just... I was hoping we could spend some more time together. You could show me around, maybe, tell me a little about the neighbourhood.”

Her expression softens, but now there's a hint of guilt there that he didn't mean to cause.

“I'm sorry. I really wish I could.”

He shakes his head as she tapers off – she has nothing to apologize for.

“I didn't mean to make you feel guilty about not babysitting me all day long. I don't expect you to put your entire life on hold for me. I was just hoping that maybe you'd enjoy a day off as well.”

“I would.”

“So what if we made it happen? I could buy a bunch of books again so you won't suffer any loss of profit from closing the shop.”

“I don't know...”

“I'm going crazy staying inside all day. I'm in one of the coolest neighbourhoods in the city, and I'm not seeing anything of it. I need to _do_ something. And I _want_ to do it with you. Please?”

The puppy eyes he makes along with his plea may be a little overdone, but they do their job: Rosaline's expression softens, and then she huffs and smiles.

“Alright. One day. But you're not going to pay me by buying books.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. It would be weird.”

“I'll still owe you a favour though. Valid as long as it takes until you've decided how you want to cash in on it.”

“I'll keep that in mind.” She looks around the kitchen. “Any chance I can cash that favour in for breakfast right now?”

“Nope. At least, not here.” He takes her shoulders and turns her around to gently push her back towards her bedroom. “Get dressed. I'm taking us out to breakfast.”

***

They don't have to go far for breakfast, mostly because this early in the morning, not a lot of the many coffee bars nearby are actually open yet. So, with her body clamouring for some sustenance, Rosaline decides to swallow her pride and take Benvolio to the nearest and least glamorous option she can think of: The old-fashioned café at the corner where she sometimes gets her fish-and-chips in the evenings. The decor is unpretentious, the food far from health-conscious, but it's quick and delicious, and Benvolio seems so happy to finally be out of the house that he looks around the grubby interior as if she'd brought him to a Michelin-star decorated restaurant.

After a big, greasy breakfast, Rosaline has had some time to get her bearings and make a plan for their spontaneous sightseeing day – and she's remembered something she's sure Benvolio will enjoy: It's Sunday, which means there are markets all around Brick Lane, selling art and records, vintage clothes and jewelry and pretty much everything one could wish to buy on a Sunday morning. Hopefully, a stroll along the stalls will provide just the stimulation Benvolio has been missing this week.

Rosaline remembers that she was planning to get started on her Christmas shopping earlier this year, after she completely slept on it last year and had to resort to giving everyone books from the shop, and Benvolio throws himself into the task of finding the perfect gifts. He helps her compare different shades of lavender scarves, contemplate the advantages of a shoulder bag versus a leather tote and gives his opinion on several stalls' worth of earrings. He even tries to talk her into splurging on a pair for herself, but Rosaline resists the temptation, determined to focus on her task. When they decide to take a break several hours later because their stomachs are growling, Rosaline has her entire Christmas shopping in the bag.

Luckily, lunch can be had just around the corner at Brick Lane market, where little stalls offer delicacies from around the world in an old factory building. The tall brick-and-steel hall is packed with colourful stalls offering exotic foods and hearty local snacks, and they get as much as they can carry and find an empty spot at the makeshift seating area erected in the factory courtyard.

"This is amazing,” Benvolio observes with an excited glance over their possibly a little excessive selection. “I'm really glad I could nag you into taking me here."

"Well, you did put a lot of effort into your nagging."

He nods solemnly.

"That was some top notch nagging, if I may say so myself."

They share a brief smile - not the first of the day by far - before they tuck in, the silence only broken by the occasional commentary on the food, often in the form of a pleased hum or an urgent “You _have_ to try this!”. They've decided to share all of their findings, and Benvolio insists that she indeed try a bit of every dish – with the very foreseeable result that Rosaline ends up seriously overindulging. But when she announces as much and shoves away the last two paper plates of food, Benvolio looks offended.

"Oh come on, you're not giving up _now_!"

He looks around, then gets to his feet abruptly.

"I know just the thing."

He heads to a nearby stall decorated in Greek blue and white, and returns after a short conversation with two tiny glasses of clear liquid.

"Ouzo!" He sets one of the glasses down before her. "Come on, it will help."

Rosaline groans - but she has to admit, she feels bad enough to try it.

She takes the glass and lifts it for a toast.

"I'll try it. But I'm still finished eating."

Benvolio clinks his glass against hers without protest, and they both down their liquor in one shot. Rosaline grins, giddy with the sudden shock to her system.

"Let's hope no one recognizes you right now - I'm guessing daydrinking isn't exactly good for your image."

Benvolio laughs.

"No, probably not. By the time the gossip mags are through with it, our little digestif would have turned into a day-long bender."

He returns the finished glasses and they head out, because Rosaline has one more surprise left yet, a spot she's sure he's going to love.

With no more food before them, the short walk is a good opportunity for some conversation.

"So you've been living here all your life?"

Rosaline shakes her head.

"Not entirely. Up until I was nine, we lived in Mayfair with my Dad's family."

"Mayfair? That's a pretty fancy area, isn't it? I only know the place because I sometimes get booked into hotels there, and they tend to be really swanky."

Rosaline nods.

"It's definitely a posh area; lots of old money and, lately, Russian oligarchs and Chinese investors. My Dad's from an old family, but when he decided to marry an immigrant and open a tawdry little book shop in an unspeakable part of town, they disowned him. I haven't spoken to my grandparents since, and it was only after my parents' death that my cousin reached out to us again. My uncle tried to help us by "rehabilitating" us into our old circles, and it would have been useful to reconnect, maybe find a wealthy supporter for the bookshop... But I'm pretty sure his plan was to just get us married off and finally close that disgraceful shop for good.”

"I can't imagine you going along with that plan," Benvolio comments – and just like that, Rosaline finds herself at a crossroads. They've shared a lot these past few days, slipping into ever more personal territory during their nightly conversations, and Rosaline has never found herself hesitating, has never felt the need to hold anything back from him, for whatever reason. But this... this will lead them into territory she's barely touched herself, if she lets it.

But somehow, strolling through the park in bright autumn sunshine, breathing in the crisp air and feeling freer with every step she's taking, Rosaline finds that there's no need to hold up that wall around old hurts: They're part of her history just like everything else she's trusted him with; like the very city around them and the very air she's breathing.

“I almost did, actually.” She says it lightly, but out of the corner of her eye she still sees Benvolio's head whip around so he can look at her, clearly surprised by the admission. “I was engaged to just the kind of man my uncle would have loved to see me with – wealthy, well-connected, ambitious...”

Benvolio stays silent, whether to let her continue uninterrupted or because he's still too stunned to reply, she isn't sure. Either way, she's glad – now that she's opened up the gates, she finds it hard to stop talking.

“We were in love, that was not the problem. We just somehow... didn't fit. His friends never really accepted me – those social circles tend to have long memories, and my father's scandals were far from forgotten or forgiven. And though he claimed to want to support me, I think he never really understood why the shop means so much to me.”

“Seriously?” Now Benvolio does interject, sounding... offended? “I mean, come on. I'm not saying you're an open book about everything, far from it, but it really doesn't take a genius to understand how important that bookshop is to you. How much it's a part of you. Hell, I could see it the first time I set foot in there.”

That declaration startles her a little, not only because of the fierceness with which it is uttered but also because of the implication that, even on their very first meeting, Benvolio was apparently making observations about her – and hitting the nail on the head, too.

“I think he just didn't understand why I was _content_ with it. He was always urging me to expand, turn the shop into a chain or add an event space or even start publishing myself – a much more prestigious profession than a lowly shopkeeper.” She sighs. “They weren't bad ideas, and he certainly meant well. But... that's not the kind of life I saw for myself. So I broke it off.”

“Wow.” Benvolio lets out a puff of air, as if just listening to her story had exhausted him. “How did he take it?”

“Not well.” She thinks for a moment, recalls those awful months after she broke up with Escalus. “But then, neither did I. I thought about going back to him every day for months.”

“Do you still think about it?”

“No. Somehow, it stopped hurting so much. And I always knew that it was the right thing to do.”

“I'm glad you didn't come to regret it.” He pauses, thinking, perhaps weighing his next words. “And I have to say, I admire you. Knowing so clearly what you want and don't want – not a lot of people have that kind of certainty, at least not at our age.” Another pause. “I know I don't.”

She wonders if that last comment was the result of a similar battle than the one she just fought in her mind, a decision to take down some of her innermost defenses. It sounded like it, and she wants to encourage him to explain further, tell him she's willing to listen just like he listened to her.

But they've reached their destination, and Benvolio stops mid-stride to stare at the rickety wooden gate before them.

“What is that?”

“Those are the Nomadic Community Gardens. They're a garden project, where people from the neighbourhood can tend to their own garden beds, but they also exhibit local artists. You wanted to come see the art that's creating all that buzz lately? This is where you see it.”

She leads him through the makeshift entrance, past rickety wooden sheds and vegetable beds erected from repurposed materials, and past the art that clearly leaves Benvolio speechless: Life-sized sculptures made out of scrap metal and old tires line the muddy paths, the coffee cart in the middle of the garden also sells miniature prints, and every free surface – from wooden walls to broken-down lorries to the entire wall of a building at the far end of the garden – is covered in street art and graffiti.

Benvolio can't seem to get enough of it – stopping every few steps, bending down to peer at an art piece hidden low on the side of a flowerbed or taking a few steps back to take in a large piece on the side of an ancient caravan. When they reach the gardens' largest canvas, the wall at its far end, he freezes in place for several minutes, simply taking everything in. Rosaline lets him – she's spotted a neighbour living a few houses down her street and pops over for a quick chat, unsure when she last took the time to do that. The quick chat turns into a longer one – apparently, a lot has been happening in her street lately that she's been unaware of – but when she tears herself away, Benvolio is still standing in the same spot, drinking everything in.

“So, what are you thinking?”

“I'm thinking I wouldn't have seen anything half as good as this in any of the galleries my art dealer would have recommended.”

“You have an _art_ _dealer_?”

“Begrudgingly. I only wanted to buy some interesting pieces for my house, but my uncle insisted that art is an investment, and must be chosen by a paid professional.”

“Your uncle sure has a lot of confidence in his opinions, for a man who's about to go to jail.”

Rosaline claps a hand over her mouth in horror, incredulous at her flippant reference to his uncle. But Benvolio isn't offended, on the contrary: His eyes are twinkling with amusement when he looks over at her, and the corners of his lips are twitching.

“Yes, I'm starting to think so too.”

“If you want to buy or commission a piece from one of the artists, I can get you into contact with the project leads – they'll know how to get in touch.”

Benvolio nods.

“I'll keep that in mind – there are so many interesting styles here, it would be a shame not to look into getting something for myself.”

With that decision made, they slowly head back to the exit – they've been here for nearly two hours, and even Benvolio eventually agrees that he's finally looked his fill. With the sun creeping lower on the horizon, it's starting to get chilly too, and Rosaline could really do with a hot drink.

They head to a nearby coffee shop, the hipstery kind with elaborately brewed coffee and seven different milk options including the vegan alternatives, to sit quietly in a nook by the window and watch the hustle and bustle outside.

So far, no one has recognized Benvolio, which is somewhat surprising considering the omnipresence of his face, even if they did take steps to hide him behind large sunglasses, an oversized scarf and an old beanie. The effort was defnitely worth it: All day, they kept walking past posters and billboards for the upcoming Chase Adams movie, and right as Rosaline is thinking so, a bus passes by that is covered entirely in a scene from it, Chase locked in a fierce laser gun battle with the movie's villain.

“This is so weird,” Rosaline comments, but Benvolio only shrugs, amused.

“You get used to it.”

Rosaline can't really imagine that, but who is she to argue? Besides, she doesn't want to dwell on the subject of his work – the whole point of this trip is for him to forget about all that for a while.

Unfortunately, the city itself doesn't seem to want to let him forget: At the table next to them, two women must have seen the movie promotion as well.

“Have you seen that one yet?”, one woman asks.

“The Chase Adams one? Not really my thing.” Her companion sounds a lot less enthusiastic.

“Well, I'm not usually into blockbusters either, but I'll definitely be making an exception, if only to ogle some man candy.”

Well, Rosaline would be lying if she said she hadn't done the same thing herself.

“Benvolio Montague? He is sort of cute,” the woman's companion observes. “But I don't know, he seems like a bit of a himbo.”

Rosaline has no idea what that means, but Benvolio seems to – he's listening just as intently as she is, his lips twitching in amusement.

“_Himbo_?”, Rosaline mouths, and finds her silent question echoed at the next table.

“You know, hot but stupid,” the woman who introduced the term explains to her companion.

Rosaline nearly gasps in shock at the crude words, her initial amusement at overhearing the conversation dissipating on the spot. But the worst isn't over yet.

“Still, I wouldn't kick him out of bed. Who knows, he might be sweet. Or the kind of stupid that's just an incredible fuck.”

“Or, more likely, he's completely self-absorbed and tosses off to the sight of his own abs three times a day.”

Rosaline is on her feet before she's actually decided to move, the legs of her chair screeching across the floor and startling Benvolio. But before he can say anything, she's stalked over to the next table, hidden from view by a room-dividing bookshelf filled with plants and knick-knacks, to address the two women.

“I'm sorry, I know this is weird but I couldn't help but overhear – you know Benvolio Montague?”

For a moment, the two women only stare at her silently. Then one of them – a little younger than Rosaline, with purple and turquoise hair and the kind of clothes that are supposed to look like they came from a vintage store but are probably from TopShop – laughs shrilly.

“She wishes!” She points at her companion, apparently the one who wouldn't kick Benvolio out of bed, then her laughter fades and she narrows her eyes at Rosaline. “So, what exactly do you think you overheard?”

“Well, you just loudly talked about how he's hot but stupid, or possibly a self-absorbed jerk. I assumed you based that judgment on personal experience.”

Now the women are both staring at her again, probably wondering if she's crazy.

Honestly, Rosaline herself isn't sure what she's hoping to achieve here – she just knows she heard them talking about Benvolio as if they knew him, as if they had any right to make judgments on his character or his intelligence, that it simply made her see red. And then there was that additional helping of sexual objectification... Add to that her temper, and now she's in the middle of making a scene in a crowded café.

Time to make an exit, maybe – but not without driving home her point.

“Apparently you consider it acceptable to talk like that about a person you don't even know.”

More stunned silence, and another flare-up of her anger.

“You do realise he's a person, right? But I guess that might just be outside the bounds of your cognitive abilities.”

With that last remark, uttered with as much contempt as she can muster, Rosaline whirls around and returns to her table, where Benvolio is sitting with an equally stunned expression.

“Let's go,” she huffs, grabbing her jacket and the bag slung over the arm of her chair. She's lost her appetite for hipster coffee, and she wants to avoid one of the women following her for a rebuke and finding Benvolio.

Benvolio must be worried about the same thing, following without a word or a glance back, and now Rosaline's anger turns against herself – all this trouble to disguise him, and she nearly blew it by confronting two nobodies, acting like some kind of knock-off vigilante defending Benvolio's honour.

With every step she takes towards the door, Rosaline feels more like an idiot – until, just outside the café, Benvolio holds her back with a hand on her arm.

“Hey, slow down, they're not following us.” He grins. “I think you scared them into submission.”

“I'm so sorry!”, Rosaline blurts out.

“Sorry?” Benvolio looks confused. “What for?”

“For making a scene. If they had followed me back to our table, they could have recognized you. I shouldn't have risked that.”

“Are you kidding? Being recognized would have absolutely been worth it just to witness what you just did. I just wish I could have seen the looks on their faces.”

“You're not mad?”

“Of course not. It was really sweet of you to defend me. Unneccessary, but sweet.”

“Unneccessary? I'd say it was very necessary. They shouldn't have talked about you like that.”

Benvolio shrugs. “They're not the first ones, and they won't be the last. People are always going to judge.”

“Well, they shouldn't. They have no idea what they're talking about. And they have no _right_ to talk about you like that.”

He's silent for a while, and Rosaline, deciding to put some difference between them and the site of their ugly encounter, starts walking away from the café – only to be stopped by Benvolio again.

“Maybe you're right. How about we finish teaching them that lesson you started?”

“What are you thinking?”

“You'll see.”

With that, he takes her hand and walks back towards the café, past the door – and on along the floor-length windows, past the table they were sitting at and to the next one over, where Rosaline just encountered his two fans. There he stops, right in front of the window, to look straight at both of them, smile, and wave slowly, and Rosaline gets to enjoy the journey visible on the two women's faces: Irritation as they recognize her, confusion at Benvolio's antics – and then, slowly, realisation when they understand who they're looking at.

It's only when the women seem to have fully realized it and one of them picks up her phone that Benvolio decides to put an end to his little joke. He takes off at a run, pulling her along by her hand – down the street and around a corner, and another and another. Rationally, Rosaline knows they're not being followed – surely, those two women wouldn't actually chase them down several streets. But there's a thrill in running like this, Benvolio's hand still tight around hers, and judging by the wide grin Benvolio throws her way, he's feeling that same rush.

They only come to a stop once they've made it back to a more crowded street, where the throngs of people are harder to navigate at top speed. Brick Lane, she realizes belatedly, but the thought flies right out of her head again when Benvolio stops and turns to her. He looks flushed and dishevelled, his borrowed beanie is in danger of slipping off, but that smile is still there, and there's not a trace of Chase Agams in it – this one is all Benvolio.

She's in the middle of wondering when she learned to tell the difference when someone bumps into him and Benvolio stumbles forward, nearly crashing into her. Rosaline steadies him with a hand on his shoulder at the same time he reaches out to hold on to her waist, and suddenly he's very close, and her cheeks feel very hot.

“That was incredible. Stupid, but incredible.” Benvolio sounds as breathless as she is, which Rosaline finds very satisfying – it's nice to know she can keep up with someone whose job requires staying in superhuman shape.

“Stupid?”

“I've never been this rude to a fan before.”

He sounds like he just achieved some kind of marvelous feat instead of mildly poking fun at people who rightly deserved it, and Rosaline can't help but laugh softly.

“Technically, I'm the one who was being rude. You just waved at them.”

Benvolio seems to ponder this for a moment, then he smiles again.

“You're right.” And, after another moment's thought, “It was still great.”

He laughs, and Rosaline laughs right along and wonders how it's possible to feel so much affection for someone she's only known for so little time.

She doesn't know, she finds, and instead of continuing to wonder, Rosaline reaches out to pull the beanie back on his head, because the last thing he needs today is to be found by the paparazzi. Her fingertips linger for longer than necessary and Benvolio stays still beneath her touch, his eyes wide and fixed firmly on her, and maybe it doesn't matter anyway. Maybe all that matters is this moment, the bustling market around them and the weight of Benvolio's hand on her waist and...

“Oi, are you two cunts going to move out of the way?”

The shouted question makes her jump in fright, turning to find a very enraged man glaring at her over a stack of boxes. One look around reveals that the market must be drawing to its end, the stalls' owners packing up their wares for the night, and the man was apparently trying to transport boxes from behind his stall to the small delivery lorry parked beside it – and blocked in his path by the two of them.

“Sorry.”

Rosaline takes a step out of the irate man's way and pulls Benvolio along with her – but he resists her motion and instead seems about to take a step forward to confront the man.

“Relax, he's just a grump.”

“A grump? He called you... you know, the c-word.”

“The what? Oh.” Rosaline laughs as the misunderstanding dawns on her. “It's not as bad here as it is over in the US. And for the record, he called both of us the... c-word. So at least he's an equal opportunity grump.”

“Oh. Right.” Benvolio seems appeased but the grumpy stall owner does not, so Rosaline quickly pulls her companion along. It might be best to disappear from the public eye now, before Benvolio accidentally causes a scene and gets recognized.

“Let's go home. We've had enough adventures for one day.”

Benvolio agrees and Rosaline mentally pats herself on the back for being so sensible as they walk the last few hundred metres to her house – but a tiny part of her wishes they were still standing there in the middle of the street, without being interrupted, and she'd have a chance to find out what would have happened next.

She has a feeling it would have been quite the adventure too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note on Rosaline's family: I decided to keep her family tree exactly as it is on the show, with her father and Lord Capulet being brothers, and to handle it like the show as well in that it doesn't get explained how exactly the family's racial background is put together.  
Also, the Nomadic Community Gardens are a real place in the area where I imagine Rosaline's bookshop to be, and they're pretty cool.


	7. I wanna be loved / I wanna be whole again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter got soooo loooong, it just would not stop.  
Also, trigger warnings apply for mentions of depression and drug abuse. (Only mentioned though, and without graphic detail.)

Benvolio makes himself at home in her apartment with astonishing speed - and the most astonishing thing is that it doesn't bother Rosaline one bit. Usually, she needs her quiet time alone, especially after a long day of dealing with customers, suppliers, and other people seemingly intent on draining her energy. She'd expect to soon get tired of having someone constantly waiting for her when she comes home, but somehow, that hasn't happened yet.

Of course, she admits, that might have something to do with the fact that Benvolio is determined to stick to his promise of earning his keep and serves her a lovely, home-cooked meal every night. He'd try to do more, somehow convinced that letting him sleep on her couch is an inconvenience that must be recompensed at all costs, but Rosaline expressly forbid him from expanding his efforts beyond the kitchen. It's one thing to have someone used to all the glitz and glamour of Hollywood see her in her early-morning Zombie stage, ratty pyjamas and all. She will not under any circumstances let him battle the dust on her apartment's every surface or launder her mismatched underwear. Cooking is where she draws the line - but that part she could definitely get used to. She suddenly understands why so many men are nostalgic for the "good old days" where they could expect their wives to cater to them: Coming home from work to find a scrumptious dinner waiting for her is certainly a nice change of pace.

But its not just the steep increase in the quality of her dining experiences that makes the situation so enjoyable: Almost as great as having someone cook for her is coming home to have someone who'll inquire how her day was, and listen patiently when the answer turns into a rant about that one customer who yelled at her for not having a bunch of obscure, out-of-print books in stock.

And Benvolio, it turns out, is very good at listening; always waiting until she's got everything off her chest before he even begins to reply rather than suggesting solutions right off the bat as if she hadn't thought of all of them herself already, as her ex was prone to do. It was his way of trying to help, she knows, but now that she's experiencing someone else's approach, she has to say she prefers Benvolio's patience. Sometimes, a girl just needs to rant, and he seems to get that. Often enough, their conversations turn from his problems – so much bigger and more pressing than hers – to her own struggles, and Rosaline wonders when she last talked to anyone this openly about her thoughts.

He's startlingly easy to be around in general, devoid of the kind of entitlement she might expect from one of the rich and famous. When it comes to his work, he's downright humble, constantly downplaying the fact that he's been working for more than two decades now, which is more than she can say for herself. From what little she's heard of his upbringing and family, she has a feeling his uncle had a hand in that, as he seems to have had in every part of Benvolio's life, and sometimes she wonders if Damiano Montague's arrest won't turn out to be a blessing for his nephew in the long run.

She doesn't tell him that, of course, and she also doesn't dare think about why she's so invested in Benvolio's well-being. Perhaps it is simply because he's sweet and humble and he looked so very lost the day he appeared in her shop and basically asked for shelter. Livia would attribute it to her "big-sister-complex", as she calls it, the compulsion to make sure everyone around her is doing fine, and to help and protect anyone she feels might be in need of it. And perhaps that's all there is to it - but perhaps there's more.

There's the fact that having him here doesn't feel like charity anymore, it feels like he's helping her as much as she's helping him, listening and advising and encouraging her. And more importantly, it's simply fun to hang out with him, so much that she finds herself looking forward to seeing him again throughout the day, closing up and rushing upstairs for a quick lunch break instead of eating a sandwich at the counter so she can keep the shop open, and doing her end-of-day chores a lot less thoroughly than she usually would. Her work ethic in general seems to be suffering lately: She hasn't even picked up the catalogues with the publishing houses' new releases, not to mention she took an entire day off because he talked her into it, with the help of a pleading expression that could melt stone. And the entire day, she barely spared a thought for the shop.

She can only imagine what Livia would say if she told her – but, and this too is unusual, she hasn't told Livia a single thing about what's been going on. She trusts her sister with her life, but this is Benvolio's life, and once she lets it slip that a man is staying in her apartment, her sister – supported by her cousin – won't rest until she's got every last detail out of her. So Livia and Juliet don't know anything about the strangest thing that's happened to her... ever, and she doesn't know how to feel about that.

She hasn't outright lied to them or avoided them, in fact she's made sure to call and text as much as usual so as not to raise any suspicions, but she's quickly deflected any suggestions of coming by to visit her with excuses of work. She won't be able to keep that up forever, but then, Benvolio won't stay forever, she assumes – not that they ever talk about that. His uncle's case seems to have stagnated, but Benvolio still doesn't seem ready to return to the outside world, and she can't blame him. She can't imagine what it must be like to live under the public eye like he does, and she doesn't want to add to that pressure by making him feel like a burden.

So she doesn't address the issue of his return and neither does Benvolio, and their situation continues to be both exceedingly strange and yet somehow feel like the most natural thing in the world.

They could just be roommates, she likes to think - but then she remembers Sunday at the market, Benvolio's hands around her waist and the smile on his face, and very irresponsibly, the thought pipes up in the back of her head that they could be something else too.

Its ridiculous, of course - they could never be... anything like that, not seriously.

So she shoves that thought aside as quickly as it comes and tries to focus on the things she can enjoy without any worries, food and conversations and goofing around, and thinks that that could be enough too – only to find that, every day, it gets a little harder to make herself believe it.

The week following their Sunday outing, the weather remains unseasonably mild, so they sit outside on the terrace after dinner on Tuesday night, with a glass of wine in hand, to look at the handful of stars managing to penetrate the city smog. Benvolio has already found his favourite spot, on the low wall separating her roof from her neighbours' luckily unused terrace, and when she looks over at him perched on his spot, he looks at once startlingly handsome and astonishingly... normal. He could be a friend or a neighbor, just popped over for a beer, instead of an international superstar.

He could _belong _here, she thinks irrationally, with sudden, startling possessiveness.

"I love it here," Benvolio says just then, almost as if he'd read her thoughts this very moment. "It's so quiet, even with all those people downstairs. I don't know what kind of magic spell your parents put on this place, but it works."

He sighs contentedly.

"Who needs spiritual retreats in the desert when you can just have this?"

"Like the one your cousin is doing?", Rosaline asks, the question slipping out before she can wonder if it makes her seem too nosy.

"More like the 4.000 bucks a night _self-care _holiday people keep trying to sell me in LA. Romeo's trip is... nothing like that. It's not even in the desert, it's in Connecticut."

"A spiritual retreat in Connecticut?"

"No. It's a psychiatric hospital." The words drop into the silence like little bombs, shocking her to the core. "My cousin's been struggling with depression since he was 13. Whenever it looks like another episode is about to hit, he checks himself into a very discreet private facility in the middle of nowhere until its over."

"That's why you didn't tell him about your uncle. You didn't want to upset him."

Benvolio nods.

"They don't have TVs or internet access there, they don't allow phones or any newsmedia. The point is for people to be completely detached from their everyday life. The only reason you're supposed to call there is if someone close to them died. I told his therapist about what's happening so she knows to be prepared though – you never know, some outside info might leak through anyway."

Rosaline nods, understanding mingling with heartbreak. From the way Benvolio talks about his cousin she's gathered that they're close - it must be killing him to be unable to talk to him right now.

"And that hospital is helping him?"

"I think so, yes. He's on medication, but they've carefully adjusted it to be as unintrusive as possible. And whenever he returns from a stay there, he seems to be doing much better." His face softens into a fond smile. "He's a fighter, my little cousin."

But just as soon as it appeared, that smile fades again.

"Of course, he wouldn't have to fight so hard now if he had gotten help back when he first needed it. But my uncle refused to take it seriously when the symptoms first appeared. He loves Romeo, he really does, but he thought it was nothing more than your average pubescent mood swings. Nothing a little bit of hard work and discipline wouldn't cure."

He laughs bitterly.

"Needless to say, it didn't work. By the time he finally faced reality, Romeo had acquired a serious drug problem as well, and instead of simply calling a therapist, we had to have him sent straight to rehab. You probably heard about it – he disappeared from the spotlight for a year, supposedly to take a "creative break"."

Rosaline thinks she's heard of that, yes – it was a big deal a few years ago, with teenage fans around the world in outrage over the disappearance of their idol, and media outlets outdoing each other with ever more outlandish theories of what was going on. She can't help but wonder now what that must have been like for Benvolio, to see his cousin's struggle laid out for public comment and consumption.

But Benvolio's thoughts seem to have already returned from the past – perhaps it hurts too much to dwell on that time.

"He's been learning to cope with it over the past years. And I've decided to help others going through the same thing – I've started a charity fund, the Nightingale Project, for teenagers struggling with depression."

“That's a lovely idea!”

Benvolio smiles grimly.

“My uncle was livid – he tried so hard to keep my cousin's depression a secret, he claimed my project would be broadcasting it to the world, never mind that I never mention my cousin in connection to it.”

“Well, what does your cousin say about it?”

“He thinks it's a great idea, even if he isn't sure yet if he wants to put his own name and story to it too. And I would never ask that of him – even we don't have to bare every part of our souls to the world, I hope.”

“No, you don't. You're trying to do some good – you shouldn't have to explain why you're doing it.”

Benvolio smiles wistfully.

"Not everyone would agree with you there." Then the smile disappears, startled away by a thought that must have just occurred to him. "I shouldn't have told you about all that – it's not even my secret."

"I promise I won't tell anyone."

"I know. I trust you." A pause, then an addition with a cheeky smile. “Unless you decide to screw me over with that favor I still owe you.”

“What favour?”

“The one I promised you in exchange for going on adventures with me the other day.”

“Oh, that.” A brief pause, long enough for a half-finished thought. “I actually have an idea for that... But you don't have to feel obligated to do it, it's probably a stupid idea anyway. I won't hold it against you if you don't want to...”

“Rosaline?”, he cuts off her rant with an amused smile. “You'll have to actually tell me the favor before I can decide against it.”

“Right. It's... Well, I was thinking, those delicious dinners you're cooking for me, I know two people who would love to enjoy one of those as well – and they'd especially love meeting you. But I know that might not be the best idea – the whole point of you being here is to not be found by fans, so I guess inviting two here wouldn't exactly be the smartest idea...”

She knows she's blabbering now, increasingly embarrassed, but Benvolio cuts her rambling down to one question:

“Who?”

“My sister and my cousin.”

His face lights up.

“Of course I'll cook for them! I'd love to meet your family. You mention them so much, it feels weird that I haven't.”

"You don't mind? I'll swear them both to secrecy, of course, but still... I guess the fewer people know you're here the better, right?"

"Yeah, but they're your family. If you say we can trust them not to sell me out, that's what I'm gonna do. So," he smiles reassuringly, "when are we having our little dinner party?"

"I was thinking Saturday, maybe? We often have lunch on Sundays, but with you here, I have a feeling things might run late. They'll have questions. A lot of questions."

Benvolio laughs.

"I'll manage. They can't be worse than a Chase Adams press conference."

Rosaline has her doubts about that, but she doesn't say anything – she doesn't want to scare him now that he's just agreed to her idea.

"Saturday it is then."

* * *

After more than a week of mostly lounging around, planning a dinner party is exactly the kind of project Benvolio has been waiting to throw himself into. He can't remember the last time he had people over to cook for them – most of his LA friends are adhering to various dietary restrictions, so figuring out a menu tends to be too complicated to bother. But the only thing he has to work around now is the fact that Rosaline's sister is a vegetarian.

And he wasn't exaggerating when he told Rosaline he'd love to meet her family. He could tell from the few times she's mentioned her aunt and uncle that their relationship is strained, but whenever her sister and cousin come up, there's so much love in the way she talks about them, he knows they mean a lot to her. Somehow, that makes meeting them feel like he's getting another piece of the puzzle that is his hostess and savior. And as Benvolio is becoming increasingly aware, that is a puzzle he really enjoys working on.

He's been fascinated with her from their very first meeting, and even after more than a week of breakfasts and quick lunches and long conversations over dinner, not to mention Rosaline's tour of her home area, he still finds he hasn't entirely satisfied his hunger for more. Dinner with her family will most likely yield more information, but he's also, irrationally, hoping it will mean something more for who he is in her life. They're not strangers anymore, but he doesn't know yet what they'll be once he walks out of her home to get back to his own life. Will she still be in it? He hopes so.

But for now, Benvolio doesn't think of his departure as he plans a menu and talks Rosaline into taking him shopping for ingredients, undercover once more. Once again he remains undiscovered, and Benvolio is starting to think that maybe he should just stay here and live out the rest of his days in peace with the help of a beanie and sunglasses when Mercutio calls once more.

"Since there haven't been any news of your body being fished from the Thames, I assume you're still alive."

"And hello to you too, dear friend."

"Oh, fuck off. Do you know what kind of hell the studio is putting me through? They're _stalking_ me now. Today they cornered me at brunch to ask where the hell you are."

"But being the good friend and agent you are, I'm sure you didn't tell them."

"Of course not." There's a pause, and Benvolio can practically hear his friend grow serious. "But you need to come back. I won't be able to hold them off much longer. Your uncle's next court date has been set – it's not for another three months. You can't keep hiding out for three more months.”

Maybe he could, Benvolio thinks briefly, desperately. But he knows that's just wishful thinking.

"Can you get me three more days? That's all I need. I need to stay here until Saturday evening, then I can be on the first flight Sunday morning."

"Why, what's on Saturday?"

Benvolio smiles to himself.

"I'm having a dinner party."

There's a brief pause, then Mercutio observes:

"You know, people don't tell you this because you're hot and famous, but you're a weird dude."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"Maybe don't. And don't do anything stupid!"

"I won't," he promises, but Benvolio isn't entirely sure it's a promise he can keep. He doesn't know what Mercutio suspects is going on, but he knows his friend suspects something, and he may not be all that far off. Benvolio is in fact getting very close to doing something very stupid - he'll just have to find a way to hold himself back from it.

For now, he focuses on preparing his dinner, increasingly determined to make it the best dinner their guests will have ever eaten. Rosaline keeps telling him not to overdo it, but that's exactly what he intends to do.

"Will you relax?" She chides after they've spent most of Friday evening hunting every supermarket and deli in the area for some of the more obscure ingredients he needs. "They're not gourmet food critics. I know for a fact that Juliet basically subsists entirely on Cadbury bars and Nando's takeaway. And Livia will love it anyway, or if she doesn't, she'll be too polite to actually tell you. Besides, they'll both be too distracted by, well, you."

She laughs, dragging him on just when he's starting to ponder if one starter course is really enough.

"Honestly, I wouldn't be surprised if they just keel over when they recognize you. I know I almost did."

"Really?"

"Well, yeah. It's not every day you have a superstar walk into your shop. I was trying not to show it, but I was a little overwhelmed."

"Well, you managed to keep it together better than most people. But you don't have to... keep it together around me now, do you?"

"Naah, now I know you're just a regular bloke. With some serious cooking skills."

She smiles, and Benvolio feels like she's just paid him the most outrageous compliment. She thinks he's just a regular guy – someone she can hang out with. Laugh. Talk. Someone who could maybe be in her life for a little longer...

And emboldened by this realization, he finally blurts out what he's been putting off telling her since Mercutio called.

"I have to go back to LA. My agent's booking me a flight for Sunday."

"Oh."

Her face falls for a moment before it smoothes over into a neutral expression, and the sight fills him with very ill-timed hope.

"Is there news from your uncle?"

"No. And there won't be any for some time, not until his court date. Which is why the studio wants me back on the promo track. News about my uncle will quiet down for a bit, and they're hoping to get people to focus on _Chase Adams_ again. I've missed the London premiere, but they've managed to arrange another premiere date in LA. If they have to push it again, they'll lose so much money they'll definitely make me pay for it."

The long-winded explanation sounds like an excuse even to his own ears.

"I wish I didn't have to go," he eventually admits, and it feels like the only relevant thing he's said on the subject so far.

"You knew you'd have to eventually. As long as you're sure you can handle it."

"I'll manage, somehow. I'm sure Mercutio and the studio's PR people have already written out all my talking points."

He feels tired just thinking about it, he realizes, and it must be showing in his voice.

"You'll make it through this, I'm sure." A quick grin. "And if not, you can always come right back here."

It was voiced like a joke, but he thinks he knows her well enough by now to know that she means it: If he ever turns up on her doorstep again, she'll let him stay once more.

"Or you could come visit me in LA, once things calm down a little."

He likes the idea, his mind immediately supplying ideas for their trip. He'd show her around LA, maybe take her on a tour of the studio. They could take a trip to Napa Valley, get drunk during wine tastings while pretending to be cultured. Or maybe a helicopter ride? No, that's too flashy. If he wants her to think of him as a regular bloke, as she put it, he'll have to take her on a regular date.

The thought startles him out of his daydreams. A date? That's exactly the kind of stuff he shouldn't be thinking about.

"I'll take you up on that offer the day Capulet Books is finally forced to close its doors and I'm the one in need of a hideaway."

"You won't have to close!"

Apparently, Rosaline finds his sudden outrage amusing.

"Relax, I was kidding. But you know how it is – vacations are a rare pleasure in my life."

"Well, if you ever find the time to take one, I insist you come to LA."

"I promise." She says it lightly, but Benvolio thinks there's a question somewhere in her eyes. He can only hope it's the same one flitting through his head.

* * *

Saturday arrives quicker than he'd like: On the one hand, Benvolio is curious to meet Rosaline's family, and fairly confident about the menu he's put together. On the other hand, Saturday will be followed by Sunday.

But there's no need to think about that just yet.

Livia and Juliet arrive in a flurry of questions and exclamations while he's still busy in the kitchen, and he smiles while listening to them.

"Well thank fuck you finally decided to show your face again. We were beginning to think you'd simply worked yourself to death."

"Are you still going through with that dreadful decision to open on Sundays?"

"Which is a stupid decision, if you ask me," the other voice chimes in. “You already work too much.” Benvolio wholeheartedly agrees.

"If you must know, I took last Sunday off and closed the shop."

"Wait, really? What happened, did someone die?"

Now Benvolio can't keep from laughing out loud, and the conversation in the living room grinds to a halt.

"Is there a _guy_ here?"

Benvolio stifles a second laugh at the scandalized question, listening instead for Rosaline's reply. As expected, it is exceedingly diplomatic.

"There's something I should prepare you for..."

But unlike her, Rosaline's family is not diplomatic in the slightest. Rather than waiting for Rosaline's explanation, one of them just bursts straight into the kitchen, a dark blonde woman a few years younger than Rosaline.

"You must be Juliet," he guesses based on the pictures Rosaline has shown him. "And I take it you're Livia," he addresses the second newcomer, smiling his most genial smile. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

"Well, fuck me!", the blonde girl exclaims, then turns to her companion. "You can see him too, right? I'm not hallucinating - he's real?"

"Oh, quit being so dramatic!" Rosaline has by now followed her family. "Yes, he's real. That's what I was about to tell you."

"Is he really who I think he is?"

A nod, accompanied by an exasperated eye roll.

"He is."

"And you can ask me directly, you know,” Benvolio reminds them. “I do speak your language. Sort of."

"But... _How_?_ Why_?" Rosaline's sister now chimes in, aiming directly for a clarification of the situation. A woman of science, clearly. "And why didn't you tell us before?"

Now that she's turning on her sister, the petite young woman suddenly looks just as formidable as the elder Capulet does when she's angry. The sisters may appear different in stature and temperament, but the family resemblance is still uncanny.

"Because I'm going to explain now, provided you actually let me speak."

Rosaline's tone conveys her full authority, and both guests nod dutifully.

"Well, as you may have heard, there's a bit of a... scandal surrounding Benvolio's family at the moment, and the media are hounding him about it. So he decided to hide out here for a bit until things blow over."

"But... _why_?"

"Why not?” Benvolio answers lightly. “It's a nice apartment, and your sister is a wonderful hostess."

Beside the two visitors, Rosaline snorts, interpreting his words as a joke, and he wants to tell her they aren't – but the two visitors aren't done with the subject yet.

"You have a twelve million dollar mansion," Juliet points out and then, when Rosaline looks at her questioningly, explains: "It was on the telly the other day."

He's about to point out that that number is a little overblown, but Juliet isn't finished yet.

"And besides, how do you even _know_ Rosie?"

Her family calls her Rosie? That's adorable.

"I came to her shop, obviously."

"_Obviously_," Juliet parrots sarcastically. "Are you kidding me?" She turns to her cousin, perhaps expecting the same outrage, but Livia seems calm and very much not surprised. Apparently, Rosaline already told her about his first visit - but not her cousin, who is now reading that same truth on Livia's face.

"You _knew_ about this?"

"I knew he was at the shop, a few weeks ago. I didn't know he came _back_."

Now Rosaline intervenes again.

"Will you stop talking about Benvolio in the third person? You're both being incredibly rude.”

There's the slightest hint of shame on both of the younger women's faces, but Benvolio has a suspicion that won't stop them from continuing to grill him.

Apparently, Rosaline suspects the same thing.

“Now, Benvolio has cooked a lovely dinner for us. So you can either stop this ridiculous interrogation so we can all sit down to eat, or you can leave right fucking now."

Juliet pouts, apparently not used to not getting her way, but she falls in line with her older cousin's command anyway.

"We _are_ allowed to talk to him though, aren't we?"

Rosaline rolls her eyes.

"Of course you are. But you can't tell anyone about this. And you definitely can't post about it on social media. Like I said - Benvolio can't be found, or he'll have the paparazzi on him again."

"Are they really this bad?" Livia asks, and in her gentle, worried voice he can once again hear her older sister.

"They might be worse here than they are over in the US."

"So why not go back there?" Juliet asks, which puts Benvolio in a bit of a tough spot: He doesn't want to seem aloof by refusing to answer, but he doesn't feel comfortable laying out the entire situation right away. But once again, Rosaline subtly steers them back into safer territory.

"Why don't you save some of your questions for later? I think we might be ready to eat."

"We almost are, yes,” Benvolio confirms, relieved. “Sit down, pour yourselves a drink, and the first course will be right out."

He makes a shooing motion to direct them towards the living room, and they follow his gentle order without protest, though not without more questions for their hostess.

"He _cooks_?"

"Has been every evening for the past two weeks. He's really good."

Rosaline's reply sounds awfully smug, and Benvolio feels irrationally proud to hear her bragging about him.

"I'm earning my keep," he calls after them as an explanation, and though he can't see it, he can exactly imagine Rosaline's expression right now: A brief eye roll followed by an exasperated smile.

Then he forces himself to concentrate on finishing the food. After much deliberation, he's decided on a first course of a crisp salad with some honey-glazed goat cheese, its surface carefully caramellized with a handheld chef's blowtorch he bought specifically for this occasion, to Rosaline's great amusement. The dish, served with fresh ciabatta and a nice French red wine, is received very well, and for a few moments, everyone at the table falls silent as they dig in.

But not for long.

“So, Benvolio,” Juliet starts, the perfectly polite cadence of her voice displaying the posh upbringing Rosaline mentioned, “is it true you once dated two supermodels at the same time?”

Rosaline spits out the sip of water she's just taken, and Livia has to clap her on the back to stop her coughing.

“Juliet!”, she hisses, and her cousin smiles innocently.

“What? You said we can talk to him, as long as we're not being rude about it.”

“I think asking about his dating history is a _little_ rude, wouldn't you agree?”

Benvolio could watch them bicker like this for a good long time, but Rosaline seems so tense and worried on behalf of his feelings that he decides to intervene.

“It's okay, Rosaline. Trust me, I've dealt with nosier questions than this one. And if you must know,” he turns to Juliet to answer her question, “I dated both and neither of them.” He pauses for dramatic effect. “I was their beard.”

That disclosure has the expected effect of making three mouths drop open in shock.

“No!”

“Really?”

He nods.

“I swear on my honour. Every man who believed in that story was jealous of me for no reason whatsoever. They actually came out as bisexual shortly after, so I guess the experience of pretending to date me to appear straight wasn't all that fun for them.”

“Wow.” Juliet is clearly impressed, and Benvolio feels oddly proud. It's silly, but he feels like he owes it to Rosaline to make sure their guests are having a great evening – and what better way to spend an evening than by gossipping?

“You know who else I didn't actually date?”

He drops another famous name, to the same delightfully shocked response.

“Another beard situation?”, Juliet guesses.

Benvolio shakes his head.

“We just got really into the same video game at the time. Those two weeks we spent holed up in her house? We didn't actually have crazy sex for two weeks straight, as some gossip mags suspected. We just played through the entirety of “Death Apocalypse” and ate our weight in junk food.”

“Why not deny the rumours then?”

Benvolio shrugs.

“I would have gotten in trouble with my studio for endorsing a video game from a studio they didn't have a sponsorship deal with. And my supposed hot affair had just launched a new workout program. Video games and junk food don't really go well with the marketing for that.”

“Too bad,” Livia comments, “she might have really found a niche there – workout programs for women who like to spend all their free time becoming one with their couch.”

“I'll pass the idea along the next time I see her.”

“Wait, so you're actually still friends with everyone you've dated? Or pretended to date?”

This time, his answer to Juliet's question doesn't come as quickly as it should – nor as honest as he would like it to be. But this one is hitting him just a little too hard to address it in this room, even if he's pretty sure he would have no problem answering the question if it was only Rosaline here.

“Pretty much. I mean, when it was just pretend, there was no reason to part on a bad note. And all my real relationships... I don't know, I guess we always parted amicably as well.”

Well, almost always, his mind supplies – but oddly, the sting that used to go along with the memory of his last, not-so-amicable break-up stays absent. Apparently, it only took a family crisis and a complete retreat from his regular life to finally get over Stella.

Or maybe, he thinks and looks over at Rosaline, who's watching him with a shrewd expression, maybe those were only contributing factors.

“It's just easier, in our business. A scorned ex with a new movie or product to sell? That's a PR nightmare waiting to happen.”

“You know, the more I hear about your life, the less I think I'd enjoy being famous,” Livia observes. “It sounds exhausting, always watching out for your reputation and trying to avoid bad publicity.”

“It is,” he admits, but he doesn't want to get into it in too much depth now. He doesn't want to come across as entitled and self-pitying. “But it does have its perks. Do you know what kind of crazy stuff they put into the goodie bags at awards shows? This year, they put in absinthe and weed chocolate.”

”I read about those,” Juliet replies, clearly the most knowledgeable in celebrity culture. “Aren't they worth like, hundreds of thousands?”

“Seriously?”, Rosaline interjects, sounding outraged, and suddenly, Benvolio feels like an idiot bragging about the silly gift bag. It's just another reminder of how obscenely out of touch he is.

“Not all of them – those are the ones only the nominees get, the really big names. Companies are donating products to the gift bags and hoping a celebrity will be spotted using them – it's still cheaper than a big ad campaign.” He shakes his head. “It's a crazy tradition, the more I think about it.”

“What's crazy is that you're apparently not considered a “big name”,” Livia ponders. “How much more famous do you need to be?”

“Well, it's not just about fame. Most of the big names are this big because they starred in great movies and they're insanely talented. That's not quite my level.”

“Yet”, Rosaline adds, and he can't help but smile at her – her unwavering faith in his talent still makes him feel like maybe he could do something big after all, something more meaningful than selling superhero merchandise.

“That's very optimistic of you,” he repeats her words from a few days ago, and Rosaline laughs, apparently recalling them as well.

“I've seen you live in action, remember? As soon as you get your hands on a script with some nuance, you'll be unstoppable.”

Now she's smiling as well, earnest and encouraging, and Benvolio feels a warmth spread through him that has nothing to do with the wine he's been sipping. He smiles back, forgetting for a moment what it was they were originally talking about.

“Wait, what do you mean you've seen him live in action?” Juliet interrupts, scandalized once more, and Rosaline's gaze moves on to her cousin, her soft smile turning into a smug one.

“It means I've had the chance to get an exclusive preview of a scene from the next Chase Adams-movie.” She pauses, delighting in her cousin's and sister's curiosity. “But I'm not allowed to tell you about it. Under pain of death, apparently.” She grins at Benvolio while Juliet lets out a pained groan.

“That's just cruel, Rosie! How could you tell us that and not say what it's about? And why are you even allowed to know?” She gasps. “Did you read the script?”

Rosaline laughs.

“Just a few pages. I helped Benvolio practice a few scenes because he was slacking off.”

Benvolio sticks out his tongue and Rosaline laughs again while her sister turns to look at him incredulously.

“_Rosaline_ helped you practice? You mean you saw her try to _act_ and you still managed to focus on your script?”

“Hey!”, Rosaline exclaims, offended. “I'm not that bad.”

“You are _terrible_,” Livia giggles. “Remember eight grade?”

“I wasn't that bad.”

“You were,” Juliet chimes in. “I was being bullied about it in class for weeks afterwards. Even though _I_ did a beautiful job with my part.”

He can't really imagine anyone would have the balls to try and bully Juliet Capulet, and so Benvolio decides to take her claim with a grain of salt and defend Rosaline instead.

“So did Rosaline when we practiced. She really grew into the role. Maybe you're underestimating her talent.”

She was still plenty distracting, of course – but that was for different reasons.

Livia snorts.

“I'll believe that when I see it.”

“You won't.” Rosaline cuts in and gets up. “Now, I believe there was more food to be eaten.”

There is, actually – they've only finished the starter so far.

The main course he carries out next is once again met with much oohing and aahing, and Benvolio wonders when he last felt this accomplished. How on earth can he be more proud about cooking for three people than about selling movie tickets to millions?

But then, they aren't just any three people. Livia and Juliet are friendly and welcoming and, now that they seem to be getting over their initial shock at his presence, treat him like an actual person instead of a novelty, or a career boost, or a news story.

Still, their curiosity remains unsated, and the main course is accompanied by more questions.

"Benvolio, I have to ask: What's your cousin really like? Is he as nice as you?"

"Nicer, most of the time. He's the biggest romantic you'll ever meet. He writes most of his songs himself, and he actually means them. He's very serious about the sanctity of love."

Juliet sighs, a dreamy expression on her face, before turning to her cousin to grin smugly.

“See? I told you he's not like other popstars.”

Benvolio briefly wonders about the history behind that look, but the next question follows immediately, and another one after that. Rosaline was right to schedule this dinner for Saturday night: Their two guests have questions enough for them to be here for a good long time. Taking another sip of his wine, he settles in to answer them all.

They make it through most of the main course before Benvolio manages to persuade Livia and Juliet to change the topic so he can learn a little about them as well. It's a nice change from being grilled, no matter how nicely, and fun for the most part, although Livia nearly puts him off dessert with gory tales of her hospital internship. Juliet interrupts her praise of his cousin's songwriting skills to explain why it actually made perfect sense for her to follow a bachelor's degree in jewelry design with a second one in sociology, and both of them try to outdo each other with silly stories about the adventures they, and Rosaline in particular, got up to in their youth, which Benvolio finds particularly interesting.

Rosaline, it turns out, wasn't always as sensible as she is now, and listening to tales of her exploits while watching her try to disappear into the back of her chair with embarrassment has to be his highlight of the evening. His sides are aching with laughter and Rosaline is smiling through her pained expression, and there's such warmth in the room, such love permeating the cosy apartment and the well-read books and this little close-knit family, that Benvolio thinks that this is what a home ought to feel like; no pool, game room or home cinema neccessary to be happy. The only thing missing are Romeo and Mercutio, who would both enjoy the evening's mix of funny stories and tongue-in-cheek teasing as well, not to mention the charming company.

Still, eventually, even the bubbly Juliet is all talked out and Livia remembers that she has work to do on a paper the next day, and the two of them say their goodbyes and stagger out into the night, leaving behind a pile of dirty dishes without so much as an offer to help, in true younger sibling-fashion.

But Benvolio doesn't mind cleaning up, still not tired in the slightest. And, he has to admit, he's hoping Rosaline will be persuaded to stay up for one last glass of wine. He has precious few hours left with her, and he wants to make the most of them.

Cleaning the table and kitchen has become almost routine for them by now, the task easily divided between them, and soon, they're standing side by side at the sink once more, close enough that his elbow bumps into Rosaline's every once in a while.

“I really don't know how to thank you for tonight,” Rosaline says after a few moments of comfortable silence. “It was a wonderful dinner. I'm sure Livia and Juliet will be talking about it for years to come.”

Benvolio laughs.

“I'm glad to hear it. And you don't have to thank me at all – this was my thanks to _you_, remember?”

“Of course I do. Still. You didn't have to do this.”

“It really was my pleasure. Your sister and cousin are pretty fun to hang out with.”

“They didn't get to be a little too much? Not even when they needled you about your love life?” Rosaline still seems nervous about that, and he really hopes she's just being overly cautious and he didn't actually make her feel like he was bothered by all their questions.

“They really didn't.” He looks at her as he says it, hoping to convey that he's serious and not just being polite, and it seems to be working: Rosaline looks relieved.

“That's good to hear. I wouldn't want you to remember us as _those annoying Capulet girls_.”

He laughs, and finds her smiling in return.

“I won't, I promise. I'll always remember you as the charming, spirited, _wonderful_ Capulet girls.”

It's her turn to laugh now, a little flustered again as she cuffs him on the arm before she returns to drying and putting away the dishes. And suddenly, something about this moment – the joyful sound of Rosaline's laugh perhaps, the way her curls bounce when she turns towards the kitchen cabinets or how familiar her focussed pragmatism feels already – makes him feel like this is a now-or-never moment, the kind of moment he'll look back on for a long time with either regret or nostalgia.

“Rosaline...” he starts and she turns back toward him, her eyes warm and inquisitive, the corners of her mouth still curled upwards with the remnants of her last smile.

_Shit_, he thinks.

And then Benvolio does the very same stupid thing he's been trying _not_ to do all week: He puts his arm around Rosaline's waist, heedless of the dishwater dripping on the kitchen floor, pulls her close, and kisses her.


	8. So tuck my hair behind my ears and touch my soul again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In an absolutely bonkers departure from my usual writing habits, I've actually finished the next chapter already. Part of that may just be because it's a lot shorter then the last one but, oh well. it's still full of good stuff, I promise.  
Also, please tell me if I should up the rating for this one or if I can still get away with a T.

The problem with bad decisions, Benvolio has learned years ago, is that so very often, they feel so very _good_.

Deciding to kiss Rosaline Capulet, the night before he leaves for the States with no idea if and when they'll ever see each other again? Definitely a bad idea.

But somehow, simultaneously, it also feels like the best idea he's ever had. Because he's wanted to do this ever since the first time he saw her, bustling about the shop to get him the absolute best books for his preparation. She's since become so much more than an intriguing woman with a passion for Shakespeare, has turned into a savior and a friend, but that hasn't stopped him from wanting her.

Unfortunately, he has no idea if she wants him the same way. Most women do - or rather, most women want Chase - but he's always been careful not to let it get to his head, not to feel entitled to women's attention. And he certainly shouldn't feel entitled to that kind of attention from Rosaline, who's already given him so much.

And on that thought, Benvolio draws back, feeling like the biggest douchebag on earth. What was he thinking? Rosaline opened her home to him, gave him a place to stay when he needed it and listened to him and distracted him and turned what was bound to be a contender for the worst two weeks of his life into some of the best. And this is how he repays her – by making a pass? She must think he assumes he can get away with anything, have anyone falling at his feet just because he's famous.

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to presume... I don't want you to think that this is all I'm after.”

Rosaline looks confused for a moment - and, he can't help but notice, even more beautiful than usual, with her hair in disarray, her eyes bright and her lips still slightly parted with surprise. Then her expression turns determined, a shift he's observed before and always enjoyed watching.

“Is it what you want right now? “

“Well, yes, but -”

“Good.”

Then it's her kissing him, and her message comes through loud and clear: This is what she wants too.

There's no more stopping after that.

Soon, their kisses turn into little explorations; Rosaline's tongue teasing at his upper lip, his hands roaming from her waist up to the edge of her ribcage and down the curve of her back, her hips tilting forward into his... It's intoxicating, and enough to quickly stoke the spark of curiosity and attraction into a hungry blaze.

Benvolio curls his hands around her thighs and lifts her up on the kitchen counter, and Rosaline gasps in surprise but immediately pulls him against her once more, his hips cradled between her thighs while he buries his head in the crook of her neck, breathing in her scent. That earns him another gasp, and another when he first nuzzles and then kisses the same spot, which soon turns the gasp into a breathy moan. Not that he'd need the sound to know he's doing something right - Rosaline is signaling it with every one of her movements, her hands buried in his hair and her legs crossing behind his back to pull him closer.

It's only when Rosaline leans back and shrieks in surprise that they're reluctantly startled into breaking apart. She's shaking wetness off her hand and he realises, after a moment of dazed confusion, that while leaning back to give him better access to her neck, she put her hand right in the soap dish.

"Sorry about the mood killer," Rosaline apologizes and laughs sheepishly, and Benvolio quickly leans forward to kiss her once more, his lips tugging into a smile at the ridiculous interruption.

"My mood's still alive and well," he rasps, and Rosaline laughs again.

Her voice is a little hoarse as well, he notices when she suggests:

“Maybe we should move this to the bedroom then."

The sultry effect of the words should be counteracted by her next movement, matter-of-factly wiping soap off on her jeans. But she's smiling brightly and her eyes are sparkling and Benvolio can't think of a single thing he wants to do more right now than follow her up on her suggestion.

So he lifts her up – conveniently, her legs are already slung around his hips – and starts carrying her towards the bedroom.

It's not as easy as careful editing made it seem when he once did the same thing in a movie – Rosaline is far from heavy, but she's also not exactly wispy either – but he pulls it off and manages to set her down somewhat gently by the bedroom door.

“That was unexpected,” Rosaline comments, a little breathless. “And sexy.”

“All those workouts have to be good for something,” he tries to play it cool, only to break into a grin right after. “Although it helps that your apartment is really small.”

Rosaline laughs. “Way to ruin the illusion.”

He shakes his head.

“No illusions tonight.”

The thought seemed important in his head but sounds absolutely cringeworthy spoken out loud, like something out of a bad movie about magicians. But Rosaline seems to get what he means: She looks at him silently for a moment, then she nods and pulls him fully into her bedroom.

He hasn't really been in here during his stay, only rapped on the door to wake Rosaline up or popped his head in to announce that dinner's ready, and he certainly isn't taking the time to look around now. There's a bed in the corner by the window, large and comfortable-looking, and that's where Rosaline leads him now.

And then she pulls her shirt over her head and they could be standing in the middle of Trafalgar square for all he cares about their surroundings.

Throughout his stay there have been moments where he's been all too aware of how beautiful she is, trying to ignore glimpses that made him ache for more – the graceful column of her neck, ending in the tantalizing V of her sensible but oh-so-sexy button-downs. The strap of her camisole slipping down her shoulder when she sits down at the breakfast table in just her pyjamas, making him long to give the other strap a little push as well. Her hands on his skin when she reaches out to him sometimes, warm and soft and capable...

Over the years, with Romeo and Mercutio by his side and always ready for the next adventure, Benvolio has developed a bit of a reputation as a party animal, the kind of rich kid living life to the fullest and still always wanting more – more parties, more affairs, more thrills, _more_.

But he's never felt as greedy as he does now.

He lets his lips follow the lines he's been admiring and finds that his observation on his first evening here was correct: Passion suits Rosaline. With her eyes half-closed in bliss, full lips caught between her teeth and head tilted back to receive his kisses, she's more alluring than any screen goddess, any supermodel – and she's _real_.

Her little gasps and moans, her restlessly wandering hands, her eager kisses – all of it is real, and all for him.

Because he's not the only one making good use of the moment: In between taking off more of her clothes and helping him take off his, Rosaline's hands and eyes are tracing his body while his are doing the same to hers, appreciative in a way that his ego welcomes eagerly.

But unlike the last few women he's been with, he doesn't get the feeling that she's mentally comparing him to his on-screen version, toned and oiled and airbrushed to achieve that perfect _Men's Health_ physique.

She's not with Chase Adams, he knows when she pulls him on top of her on the bed, her eyes locked on his and her face once more adorned with that soft, warm smile: She's with _him_.

* * *

Having sex with a superstar is a lot less surreal than Rosaline would have expected. Maybe it's because she's never really had a super intense crush on any actor or singer, like Livia and particularly Juliet did during their teen years. Maybe it's because it all happened so fast but somehow still felt inevitable, as if she had already decided with one of Benvolio's very first smiles that she wanted this to happen.

But mostly, she thinks, it's because she knows she isn't here with Chase Adams, Space Cowboy-turned-superhero, or with the version of Benvolio that gets trotted out on the covers of men's fitness magazines - and thank God, because she googled those after their conversation on the pressure he's under to stay fit, and the man on those magazines looks like an absolute twat, not to mention he's so oiled-up he'd ruin her sheets.

No, the thing that makes this night not surreal at all is that she knows the man with her is just Benvolio, sweet and kind and sharply funny, and right now it doesn't matter what else he is to the world because the world isn't here.

For a little while, nothing seems to exist except for the two of them, so caught up in each other they barely even remember to get a condom from the back of her nightstand. Benvolio's impending departure adds a strange quality to the night, pitting pent-up desire against the wish to savour their time together, and adding equal parts urgency and melancholia to their caresses.

Later, she'll remember the best of both: The heat in his touch and his kisses, the softness in his eyes and they way they keep returning to hers throughout, as if he wanted to keep being reminded that she's really here with him. But it takes a while for her to even form thoughts this precise after they untangle their limbs, and for a little while, she just lays there feeling breathless and warm and floaty.

Through her post-orgasmic haze, it takes her a moment to decipher Benvolio's words:

“Do you want me to go back to the sofa to sleep?”

That question stuns Rosaline for a moment. Is he seriously expecting her to kick him out of bed now? Does he think this meant nothing to her? Or is he perhaps asking because he'd like to be given an out himself?

“Only if that's what you want,” she replies cautiously and steels herself against a sudden fearful flutter inside her. Did she misunderstand his intentions so badly? Was the sex actually all he wanted, and now he'd prefer to avoid the messy emotional aftermath?

But Benvolio pulls her closer, nuzzles his face into the back of her neck, and murmurs:

“I'm great right here.”

* * *

They drift off for a little while and wake up again with the very first light of day, as if their bodies were aware of the clock running out on their time together, and wanted to make the most of it.

Slowly coming awake in each other's arms turns into drugging kisses, soft touches, and eventually, lazy morning sex, with none of last night's urgency but all of its intimacy. Rosaline is still smiling softly, still kissing him like nothing else matters, and Benvolio's heart clenches at the thought of leaving her.

He only lets go of her long enough to dispose of the condom, then he's drawing her close again. Rosaline lets him, relaxing into his arms with a languid smile, and it feels like a privilege to experience her like this.

“You know, a very selfish part of me is tempted to drag you to LA so you can come to the premiere with me.”

“Taking me to a fancy movie premiere with lots of famous people? How utterly selfish of you.”

Rosaline is teasing, but he still doesn't want her to misunderstand.

“Trust me, it's not nearly as fun as it sounds. There's hours spent on wardrobe and make-up, and then waiting for your turn to hit the red carpet, and then trying to give coherent interviews while photographers are yelling at you to look this way and that. And most of the time, there isn't even any food.”

“Oh. That really doesn't sound very appealing.”

“No. Staying here with you is _much_ more appealing.”

Rosaline chuckles, low and a little sleepy – for a moment at least, before the sound dies out and her voice turns wistful.

“I wish you could. Stay here.”

He's expressed that same wish himself, a few days ago, but hearing it echoed by Rosaline is a special thrill.

“So do I.” His answer comes immediately - he hasn't thought of much else, after all. Then he slows down a little, hesitant now but still emboldened by the fact that he's still here, by her side, rather than on the sofa. “I could come back, once the premiere is over. Since you don't take time off work, _ever_.”

Another smile, slower and more quiet. A kiss, feather-light and slow, that nearly makes him lose his train of thought again. And finally, an answer:

“I'd take time off for that.”

Later, they get up to have breakfast - one last time, Benvolio tries not to think. Rosaline makes tea and Benvolio goes all out with a full English breakfast, and whenever either of them mentions his upcoming flight, they make it sound like nothing more than a quick trip. Rosaline misses the shop's opening time and Benvolio doesn't comment on it, but his heart aches with the knowledge of how much it means.

In the quiet, sunlit kitchen, he listens to her rant about a particularly difficult supplier while he piles scrambled eggs on two plates, and as he sets them down and watches Rosaline pour them both a cup of tea, Benvolio wonders if this is how normal people live.

It must be, he thinks, and if not, it should be. And suddenly, he wishes more than anything else that this could be his life as well - not just for a week or two but permanently: A hearty breakfast and a cosy kitchen whose furniture has seen better days and a person who makes his heart swell with affection while she's ranting about her annoying business associate.

For a moment he's overcome with the urge to blurt out that he's going to stay, and screw the studio. For added effect, he could rip up his ticket, he imagines, but he doesn't manage to get properly into a mental preview of the scene before he realizes how far-fetched it is. The ticket isn't even printed out, for God's sake, and even if he missed that flight, there are dozens of others the studio would insist he get on.

He has a life to get back to, and so does Rosaline.

But maybe, just maybe, they can figure out a way to make those lives include each other in the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are they both the most over-the-top, lovestruck, dramatic fools? Yes. They are.


	9. I am human now and terrified

Benvolio lands in LA after what might be the most restful flight he's ever had. After spending half the night awake with Rosaline, he fell asleep the moment his head hit the headrest on his first-class seat, and he slept through until a stewardess gently shook him awake. Outside, his luggage has already been collected and ferried off to the car waiting for him outside, and in that car is Mercutio, waiting as well with his usual smile, warm and quick with a perpetual edge of impatience.

“It's good to see you back among us,” Mercutio announces after an energetic hug, and Benvolio nods and smiles, impatient himself: He can't wait to tell his best friend all about where he spent the last two weeks, and who he spent them with. He feels like he's going to burst if he can't say her name out loud, like some kind of incantation that grants power to whoever speaks it. But before he can launch into his report, Mercutio has things of his own to report. “Now, I doubt you've seen it yet, but stuff has been happening on social media...”

Benvolio can practically feel his blood drain from his face as he imagines what might have happened now. Has someone leaked Romeo's whereabouts? Found out about Rosaline?

Mercutio, aware of the alarming effect of his words, hastens to explain.

“It's nothing serious, really. Just a... ghost from the past that has decided to resurface.”

He pulls out his iPad and hands it to Benvolio, open to an instagram post. The picture shows a blonde woman in a silk camisole and a fluffy cardigan, looking worriedly out of the window – his ex-girlfriend and former co-star, Stella.

Underneath the post – already at several thousand likes and comments – the caption reads:

_A person I care about deeply has been hurt and betrayed, and some people have nothing better to do than use his private misfortune to sell magazines. I stand by @therealbenvoliomontague and will do everything I can to support him through this difficult time. _

Benvolio can't help but laugh in surprise – the last time he asked Stella to support him, he ended up unexpectedly single, and he hasn't heard of her since.

“Well, it's nice that she's taking such an interest in my... “private misfortune”. But that was two weeks ago – why is she reacting to it now? Wouldn't it have made more of an impact if she'd posted that right after the news broke?”

“Oh, she did – this post appeared a few days after the Big Bang. I didn't want to tell you about it, but then it went sort of viral and she felt the need to give an interview about it.”

Benvolio's stomach sinks. In his experience, interviews about social media posts are never a good thing.

“They interviewed her about it?”

“Oh yes. Someone at some gossip mag thought it was very touching how she was voicing her support, and then the bright minds over at that quality publication wondered if maybe there was more behind her show of empathy, so of course they heavily implied that the reason our dear Stella is suddenly taking such an interest in your “personal misfortune” is that you're back together. So obviously, that's what they wrote, and the next time someone asked her about that, our dear Stella didn't consider it necessary to outright deny any of the speculations and, well...”

He pulls up a picture on his ipad, the cover of the magazine in question, which shows the photo from Stella's instagram picture and a similarly forlorn-looking Benvolio (though his picture is from a photoshoot where he was instructed to “look tragic”) and pasted them next to the caption “_Leave Benvolio Alone: Stella Shows Public Support for Ex”_.

One quick swipe and the next magazine cover appears with a similar array of photos and the title _“Stella's Message of Support – A Declaration of Love?”_.

Benvolio groans, and the next magazine cover appears.

“_Plot-Twist: Benvolio Finds Love in his Darkest Moment!”_, this one screams in bright yellow font, with the sub-caption: _“His Uncle's Betrayal Reunites the Actor With an Old Love!”_

“So it's practically settled – the two of you are back together again,” Mercutio sums up.

“And Stella is encouraging this nonsense?”

“She hasn't said a peep since the headlines started appearing. And why would she? She hasn't made a cover in almost two years, and now suddenly she's got the whole line-up and her name's been trending for the past three days, along with your old couple name.”

Benvolio shakes his head, still too stunned from this turn of events. Of all the things he was expecting to come from his family's recent increase in notoriety, this was not one.

“Her last two movies tanked and she's got a new one coming out that isn't generating much interest either,” Mercutio comments, up-to-date as always. “She needs the publicity.”

Benvolio grinds his teeth in anger. Stella may be profiting off this non-news, but she clearly didn't waste a second to consider what it might do to him. Because, he realises with growing dread, if those headlines are on the US editions of those gossip mags, they'll soon be on their UK counterparts, and even if he can't imagine Rosaline buying one of those, she'll come across them, some way or other. And the thought of her reading any of those headlines and thinking that they're true, that he's been back with his ex the entire time he was with her, keeping it to himself to get into her pants... it's _horrifying_. They haven't even talked about what happened between them, what it might mean. He took the time for a lingering goodbye kiss this morning, yes, but he didn't think it would be the right moment to get into what last night meant for them. He was thinking about bringing it up after he landed, once he got everything sorted and could call her to talk properly.

Now he's going to have to talk about this bullshit instead.

“I need to make a phone call,” he says abruptly, already getting out his phone to call Rosaline – only to realise that it's the middle of the night over there, and she's probably fast asleep. “Shit. Shit shit shit. What the hell was she thinking?”

He runs his hands through his hair nervously, clenching his eyes shut against an oncoming headache. When he opens them again, Mercutio is looking at him worriedly.

“Hey, calm down. It's not that bad. We just need to decide how we'll play this. You don't even have to publicly address it, if it's too painful. We can just...”

“That's not it,” Benvolio cuts him off. Mercutio seems to think the reason for his reaction is that he's still not over Stella, when that could not be farther from the truth. “It's just... There's someone who's going to read those headlines and get a very wrong impression, and I don't want that to happen.”

“A female someone?”, Mercutio asks, and Benvolio confirms with a nod.

His friend sighs.

“I take it you didn't spend the entire time sleeping on your mysterious British friend's _sofa_.”

“Well, I started out there. But things happened and now... Rosaline can't see those headlines, Mercutio. Not before I've had a chance to explain to her what happened.”

“Well, I can try and see about seeking injunction, but that might just draw more attention to the whole thing. Maybe you should just talk to your lady friend, tell her about what happened.”

“Yes. I'll call her first thing tomorrow and explain everything.”

Mercutio nods grimly. “And meanwhile, maybe give the lovely Stella a call and tell her to cut the crap.”

* * *

The worst part of finding out that Benvolio has a girlfriend is that it's the first thing she hears or sees of him after he leaves.

He promised to call after he landed in LA, but now, she isn't so sure if that's really going to be his first priority. Not when he's apparently about to get back with his ex, as the gossip mag whose website she's currently staring at is claiming.

She doesn't even remember why she googled him – boredom, she wants to claim, but she's afraid it's really one of those ridiculous things people do when they have a crush, like compulsively mentioning the person's name or walking by their house. She started with his instagram, smiling fondly at pictures of him with his cousin and another man, dark-haired and attractive and more often than not with a mischievous spark in his eyes. His manager Mercutio, she remembers from the many fond mentions Benvolio made of him.

Then, looking for more material to feed what was quickly starting to take on a slightly obsessive note, she simply googled his name and followed the first link, to an article that showed him without his smile for once – which, honestly, is just a waste of a nice smile.

And then, right into a mental replay of his smiles for her, his kisses last night, came the moment she actually took in the headline.

_Benvolio Montague: Could his family's scandal bring a new chance at love? _

For a moment, driven by confusion or hybris or both, she assumes it's about her. Perhaps someone saw them together, and guessed at what was going on between them?

Then she actually takes the time to read the whole thing and realizes how silly she's being. Of course the article isn't about her – it's about his ex, who may not be as much of an ex as Benvolio suggested the few times the subject came up. Apparently, said ex, a model-turned-actress who starred alongside him in the first Chase Adams-movie and who he continued to date for some months afterwards, has reappeared to “console” him after news of his uncle's arrest broke, and has perhaps been back in his life for some time, as other articles suggest when she googles both their names, hands trembling on her phone screen.

It can't be, she thinks – how could some other woman across the Atlantic have “consoled” him when he was here the entire time, hiding out in her apartment?

But he still had his phone, and it's not like she watched over him day in and day out. He could have been speaking to his ex for all she knows, while she was downstairs working. Texting her after she'd gone to bed, perhaps to tell her about the silly, starstruck English girl who let him live at her place for free and played his therapist, acting partner and tour guide as needed. And then, when he'd got every bit of validation from her, and made her think that any of it meant as much to him as it did to her, he took off to be with some other, better woman.

The thought makes her nauseous.

But then, Rosaline reminds herself, this isn't the first time she's been hurt, nor the worst. She can get through this; shut down that silly little crush she's been harbouring and keep it from doing any more damage. She knows exactly how to do it: Close the half-dozen tabs with articles about Benvolio and his old and possibly new relationship. Set aside her phone. Get herself another cup of coffee and open up her laptop to get to work on some of the many tasks she's been putting off until there's no more room in her head for thoughts of Benvolio.

She knows how to do it – but instead, she continues to stare masochistically at one of the photos she found, nausea still roiling inside her: Benvolio and his ex at some kind of red carpet event, entwined and smiling – although, she can't help but notice, Benvolio's attention seems to be entirely on the woman beside him, while she's coquettishly looking at the cameras.

Somehow, that makes it worse. Because a little part of her, the part that isn't completely occupied feeling betrayed and angry and sick to her stomach, hopes that at least she loves him, this other woman. That she knows him the way Rosaline thought she was starting to know him – not as Chase Adams, but as so much more than that.

Finally, after an indeterminable time lost to staring at that picture while going over everything she thought she experienced these past few days, that other part of her takes control again, the part that doesn't have time to sit and brood while there's work to do – and there's always work to do.

She welcomes it, even if it takes unbelievable strength to drag herself downstairs, open the shop, and smile at the customers trickling in from the nearby market. It's hard, but it's something she knows how to do, and right now, that's enough.

* * *

Benvolio texts three hours later. She ignores it, only to see an e-mail preview pop up on her computer – from him as well, and just as easily deleted as his text messages.

But he's more stubborn than she expected: After about an hour of continuing to work with her phone on silent and her computer shut off, the phone at the shop rings. The number has an American area code, and she knows immediately who it is.

She doesn't pick up – only for the call to go to voicemail, which means she can listen along to every word as her antiquated answering machine bleats out the message while recording.

“Rosaline, please just give me a chance to explain. I know you don't owe me a single second of your time but... please. Pick up the phone.”

She tries to ignore the message just like she ignored his e-mail and all of his texts. But the moment she hears his voice, her resolve crumbles. As always, he sounds so bloody _earnest_ that she can't possibly imagine him deceiving her on purpose.

She should at least give him a chance to explain – but she won't make it easy on him.

"Please don't leave personal messages on the shop's answering machine,” she starts right after picking up, harsher than necessary in the anticipation that she won't be able to keep it up anyway.

“Ms Capulet!” He sounds ecstatic to hear her, but there's an edge of nervousness to his voice, and he rushes through the next words as if afraid she'll hang up again. “Whatever you've heard or seen, it was a lie. I broke up with Stella months ago, and haven't talked to her since. She saw a chance to get her name trending and she took it. That's it.”

That sounds... too crazy to be true even by the standards of his Hollywood life.

“Seriously?”

“Yes. She's... media savvy like that. But things between us are over and have been for some time. I would have told you if they weren't.”

“You don't owe me any explanation on your private life. It's none of my business.”

The words come out harder out than she expected, and she can hear him swallow audibly on his end of the line.

“No. I guess I was just... hoping we'd get to a point where you'd consider it your business.”

He pauses, waiting for her to say something, but Rosaline can't quite wrangle her thoughts into a coherent response. It falls to Benvolio to end the pause before it stretches on too long.

“I know we barely know each other. I crashed into your life, and maybe you're glad to be rid of me. But to me, our time together was special, and I'd hate to see it end. Especially like this.”

That's the other thing about hearing his voice, she realizes now: It makes her remember how much she's missed him; stupidly, illogically missed him since he left – less than a day ago, and yet it feels like it was longer, just like it felt like he was here longer.

“So, what does that mean?”

“It means I want to be with you. For more than a week or two.”

“And how, exactly, would we accomplish that?”

“I could come get a place in London, to live at when I'm not off filming. I'm sure there are personal trainers and drama coaches in London. Or you could close the shop for a little while and come here. I could get you the money to keep the shop afloat. We could make it _work_.”

They could, maybe. With lots of planning and expenses, they could make it work, even though she doesn't exactly love the idea of taking his money to keep the shop open while she flits off to LA. But thinking back on the moment everything went South, when she saw that horrible article, she knows that's not what's holding her back.

“It would always be like today though, wouldn't it? People would always make up stories about you, and I'd be sitting on the sidelines hoping they're not true.”

He would never entirely be _hers,_ she thinks but doesn't dare to say it out loud.

“I'd be lying if I said that wasn't true. And they'd zero in on you too, no matter how we'd try to protect you. I get it if that's not exactly appealing.”

She hasn't really thought about that yet, and she guesses he hasn't either – they've been living in their own little bubble these past two weeks and the other night in particular, where such banal things as PR-savvy exes and viral social media posts had no place. Those last two weeks, wonderful as they were, were no accurate representation of what actually being with Benvolio would be like.

This moment is.

And as much as it pains her to admit it, it scares her.

Being forever under public scrutiny, exposed to the judgment, the criticism and downright hate of a giant media machine as well as Benvolio's millions of fans – she isn't sure she's cut out for that. Something about the way she felt earlier this morning reminded her eerily of what it was like to date Escalus, the confirmed most eligible bachelor of their social circle: Forever watched by potential rivals, waiting for her to misstep like vultures circling over a wounded animal. The gossip and the needling and the unspoken question of "why her?" that seemed to follow her around. The thought of being exposed to the same scrutiny from literal millions of women worldwide? She isn't sure she's got the courage for it.

But she sure wishes she did.

“It's not that I don't feel the same, you know. I... I enjoyed our time too.”

He draws in a sharp breath, and her insides clench at what it must mean, how her words must have affected him – which makes her next words that much harder to say.

“And under normal circumstances, I would hope this thing we have would be going somewhere. But I'm just not sure I'm ready for what being with you would entail. I'm sorry.”

There's silence for a moment, and Rosaline wonders if it would make it easier or harder if they had this conversation in person. A part of her is glad for the distance, the audio-only connection that allows her to start rebulding that old protective wall around her heart, freshly torn down for him. Another part wishes painfully that he was here so they could close their bubble around them once more, to figure things out in peace or to stay forever, whichever they want more.

Benvolio sighs.

“I get it. I mean, I've become kind of numb to the craziness, but I can see where it would be intimidating. And you have your own life to think of – the shop...” Another sigh. “We can still stay friends though, right?”

“Sure.” She aims for casual and light-hearted, but her doubts must shine through in her hesitance.

“You're saying that as if you didn't really want it.”

Now it's her who sighs, tired of how complicated everything suddenly became when the rest of the world decided it wanted to have a hand in their story as well.

“I'm just wondering if it won't just make things harder than they need to be.”

“Is it weird that I'm taking that as a positive sign?”

“It's a sign that I really like you, Benvolio. But it doesn't change anything. Maybe it would be for the best to just... go back to our lives and fondly remember those two weird, great weeks we had together.”

“But I don't want to do that!” It comes out sounding downright petulant, and Rosaline smiles fondly. “I'll respect your wishes, of course – but I really hate it.”

Rosaline hates it too, and she almost tells him so – but then she swallows the words down, her throat tight. One of them has to be sensible about this, and it doesn't look like it's going to be him.

“Goodbye, Benvolio. I wish you all the best. I hope you find your way through all the bullshit with your uncle, and that you get to play that Shakespeare part some day.”

There's a long silence at the other end of the line that makes Rosaline wonder if she has to expect further resistance; if he'll continue to fight for this – and if he does, she wonders, how long will she hold out?

But then he speaks again and his voice is different – smooth, controlled, and perfectly friendly in a way she absolutely _hates_.

"Thank you. I wish you all the best for the shop – fewer hipsters and more paying customers, ideally.” A moment, then his voice turns a little warmer again. “And if someone tries to hang out and read without buying anything, don't hesitate to kick them out.”

She has to laugh.

“What if they turn out to be a great person?”

“That's why I'm telling you to kick them out. I want to be the only person with a meet-cute story like that in your life.”

“I think it's safe to say that you will be.”

“Good.” He sounds fierce now, a little possessive in a way that would thrill her if she let it. Then his voice turns soft again, warm as ever. “Goodbye, Rosaline. Don't forget me completely.”

“Forget _you_? Your face is everywhere! I should be the one worried about being forgotten.”

“You won't be.”

He says it quietly, but Rosaline hears nonetheless, and she imagines she can detect a myriad of emotions beneath the words – longing and tenderness and fondness and regret, all the things she's feeling herself, and now it's her turn to think petulantly that this is not fair. To find someone so perfectly perfect for her, who nonetheless refuses to fit into her life – it's not fair.

“I'm glad." A pause, then a quiet: "Goodbye.”

“Goodbye.”

With that, everything that should be said has been said, and everything that shouldn't be said held back, at least on her part. She could, _should_, hang up – but the connection holds for a few more heartbeats, silence on either end, dangling the possibility of a change of mind before them.

Another heartbeat, then Rosaline exhales and, with shaking hands, ends the call.

Then she closes the empty shop, sits down on her stool by the counter, and cries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, I'm about to dive for cover before you start yelling at me....  
I guess those of you who have watched Notting Hill might have seen this coming.  
To the rest of you: I promise, there will be at least three more chapters. Don't give up on me now.


	10. There will be no years of silence in the shadow of regret

Rosaline doesn't cry for long – she never does; never has the time to, and even now, she doesn't allow herself more than a few minutes of wistful sniffling before she resolutely wipes away her tears. She's abandoned her work long enough, and it's about time she got back to it. Not that her concentration lasts very long: It's still some time before closing when Livia calls, very transparently trying to sound nonchalant.

“_So_, how is everything?”

“Fine,” Rosaline replies, aiming for casual as well but sounding sullen instead. “Things have been quiet at the shop.”

“Anything else?”

Rosaline remains silent for a moment, not sure what to say. Her sister doesn't know yet what happened between her and Benvolio, and after their conversation, there's no need to tell her – it won't come to anything anyway. But as she should have expected, her sister has already guessed some of what's been happening.

“Come on, Rosie - I'm dying to know what's been going on! Did you talk to Benvolio since he left?” The flash of excitement in her voice dampens again, her tone turning more cautios. “It's just... well, there's been some speculation online about him and his ex-girlfriend. And I may be imagining it, but last night, I could have sworn you and him... well, that there was something going on there.”

Rosaline swallows hard – but as hard as she knows it will be to talk about it, she knows not talking to her sister is even worse.

“I thought so too. And we... well, things happened.” She's voiced it so carefully, and yet even her vague allusion makes memories slam back into her. For something so weak when faced with the reality of Benvolio's life, it felt like so much, that night in her apartment.

And clearly, all of that emotion can be heard in her voice, for Livia shrieks excitedly.

“Seriously? Tell me everything! Did you hook up? Was it magical? What's happening now, are you dating? Will you be visiting him in LA?”

“I.. We...” And then, against every principle, she bursts into tears again.

“Fuck, Rosie, are you crying? What the fuck is going on? Did he hurt you somehow? Because if he did...”

“He didn't do anything wrong,” Rosaline sniffles, trying to control herself enough to calm her sister down before she launches a full-on attack on Benvolio. “He didn't know what his ex was doing, and he's not getting back together with her.”

Livia sighs.

“Thank God. Because I really thought...”

She doesn't want to hear what her sister thought, too afraid that it will be the same thing she was hoping for.

“But I saw those headlines too, and they were a real wake-up call. Benvolio and I... we could never be anything serious. I couldn't handle living like that.”

“So what, you're not even trying?”

“What's the point, Liv? His life is... so very different from mine. We'd probably crash and burn within a week.” She swallows down tears again, annoyed at herself for being so emotional. “This way at least, I'll remember him well.”

Her sister is quiet for a moment, uncharacteristically so.

“So if things were different... you'd want to try?”

“I...” Yes, she wants to say, but she has a feeling that will only lead to more tears. “Things aren't different though. Besides, I've known him for two weeks. That's not... I'm not going to upend my entire life over that.”

Livia sighs.

“I get it, I think. Still, I thought... Well, the other night at dinner it looked like the two of you had a real connection. I guess I'm just a hopeless romantic.”

Rosaline has to laugh, her throat still a little scratchy.

“You definitely are.”

“Guilty as charged. Which is why I will simply believe that your soulmate is still coming your way, even if he's not coming all the way from Los Angeles.”

Rosaline has to laugh again, although she can't help but also roll her eyes.

“I guess I'll just have to be satisfied with someone from Greater London then.”

“That's the spirit! There's plenty of good men around here, we don't need any American superstars.”

Rosaline has to laugh again, but the laughter dies down more quickly than she'd like, and gives way to another moment of silence that leaves too much room for morose thoughts. But her sister, ever the trooper, doesn't let it get to that.

“Anyway, I was thinking I'd pop by tonight. Have ourselves a bit of a girls' night.”

The offer is voiced in a way that leaves no room for protest, and Rosaline is touched by her little sister's attempt to look out for her.

“I'd like that.”

Later, Livia arrives with a huge pot of fried plantains, a favourite comfort food their Mum used to cook for them, and hugs Rosaline so tightly that she can't breathe for a moment.

They eat plantains with spicy rice and drink cocoa with rum and talk about anything but Benvolio, and by the end of the night, Rosaline already feels a little bit better.

Life will go on, she knows – here in London, and halfway across the globe in LA.

* * *

“Your dog is trying to drown himself again.”

Mercutio's voice cuts through the drowsy quiet of a Hollywood Hills afternoon, prompting Benvolio to lift his head and turn it towards the pool to check on the dog in question.

“Nah, he's fine.”

“Just last week, he jumped in and we got him out literal seconds before we would have had to reanimate him.”

“Yes, last week. But since then, I've taught him to swim. And I got him a little doggie life vest.”

Mercutio plops down on the empty lounge chair next to Benvolio's, still peering suspiciously at the dog.

“Huh, you really did.”

“Yup. So now he's swimming.”

“I'm not sure I'd call it swimming. He's more like... aimlessly floating about, completely overwhelmed by what's happening.”

Benvolio only hums in acknowledgment, too drowsy to come up with a proper reply. So far, his day has consisted of a boozy breakfast and a long nap, and he's not altogether here yet.

“I feel like there's a metaphor in there somewhere,” Mercutio observes, with a voice that implies he's strongly hinting at something, and Benvolio can feel his friend's stare on him even with his eyes closed.

“Is there.”

“Well, it seems to me he's not the only one around here who's aimless and scared.”

“Ah. We're talking about me.”

“Yes we are. You had me cancel half your PR appointments so that you could teach your dog to swim. Judging by the look of the kitchen, you've fired your personal chef. And you haven't replied to any of the casting calls I've sent your way, or the studio's inquiries about the next Chase Adams-contract. Clearly, you're in a slump.”

Benvolio hums again, less than motivated to get into this particular topic right now.

“Is it because of the girl?”

Feeling slightly like a bratty child, Benvolio remains stubbornly silent.

“The one from London?”

Unbidden, memories of his time with Rosaline come back to flood his mind – watching literary adaptations, looking at street art around Shoreditch, helping him learn his lines... smiling at him the morning they woke up together.

“She could have been the one.”

“Maybe. But she didn't want to be.”

“Wow. I sure am glad you came to cheer me up.”

Mercutio sighs.

“Look, I know you liked her. I know you think staying with her changed you somehow, and maybe it did. But you didn't seriously expect her to just go all in on a relationship that would end her life as she knows it, did you? Frankly, the fact that she _didn't_ is the one thing that makes me think she might have actually been right for you.”

Benvolio can't help but chuckle through the bitterness threatening to envelop him.

"You might be on to something there.”

“I'm kind of wishing I'd met her, and that magical bookshop you kept ranting about.”

“Me too. You'd like her, I'm sure.”

“Maybe. Probably. But that's neither here nor there now, is it? You need to do something, Ben. For one thing, you need to make a decision about the next Chase Adams-movie. The studio seems to have hired an assistant specifically to call me every hour on the hour and ask if you're ready to come sign the contract yet.”

“Tell them...”, he breaks off, uncertainty flaring up inside him once more. He's been going over this for days now, and always coming back to the same spot: The exact middle between the wish for a new start, a new challenge, a chance to do any of the things he's been talking about with Rosaline and that that made him feel excited about his future for the first time in months, and that old fear instilled by his uncle that he can never stay still, never turn down an opportunity, or the family might slide back into poverty and insignificance at any moment.

But this time, with the memory of all those evenings in Rosaline's apartment refreshed once more, he moves just a little from that point of paralysis, just enough to tip over into one direction.

“Tell them I won't be signing that contract. I'm done with Chase Adams.”

Mercutio looks shocked for a moment, then he only nods, takes out his phone, and walks away to call the studio, and once again, Benvolio is thankful for his best friend. He may have finally found the strength to make the decision, but he isn't quite ready to talk about it yet, and as always, Mercutio understands: He'll talk about it when he's ready, and until then, Mercutio will take care of making things happen.

And, this much he has realized during his time “dropping off the face of the earth”, as Rosaline called it: Things need to happen. Mercutio described him as aimless and scared now, but if he's perfectly honest, he's been heading there for a while. Rosaline isn't the reason for his current misery, not entirely – he's been miserable for some time now, and Rosaline was the one who made him see it.

Where it once seemed to offer him the world, now his fame has become stifling, slowly burying his own thoughts and wishes under a mountain of other people's thoughts of how he should be. Not renewing his contract with Wonder Studios is a necessary, long-overdue step, but it won't be the last.

Benvolio sits up so abruptly, he startles the dog still floating in the water. The poor thing flinches and swallows water in the process, and Benvolio takes pity and quickly fishes him out, tucking him under his arm as he strides inside the house, towards his barely-used study.

It's time to make some changes.

* * *

Making changes, it turns out, is a lot easier than Benvolio had expected it to be. Soon, he has a contract running out, half a dozen new auditions lined up, and a mansion up for sale, and he feels pretty damn good about it – even if it means his days of lounging by his gigantic pool will be coming to an end soon.

And then, on one of his last afternoons as a mansion owner, there's one more surprise to brighten his mood.

“So let me get this straight,” a voice calls out from the house and Benvolio sits up, startled but already recognizing the familiar voice. “I'm gone for a few weeks, and somehow my Dad ends up in prison and you decide to sell your house and part ways with Chase Adams?!”

With his characteristic knack for a dramatic entrance, his cousin Romeo emerges from the living-room onto the patio, an outraged expression on his face – but the outrage melts away as he steps closer and pulls Benvolio up from his lounger into a bear hug that nearly takes him off his feet.

“You're back!” Benvolio exclaims when he can breathe again.

"Yes, I checked myself out after I heard what's been going on. Although I have to say I don't really understand what exactly that is.”

He plops down on a lounger, looking at Benvolio expectantly.

“Seriously though – what the fuck happened here?"

"Well, your Dad decided to steal money from everyone, and I decided to make some changes."

Romeo drops down on the lawn chair next to him, watching Benvolio quietly.

"Why didn't you come get me?"

"I didn't want to bother you with all that stuff. And you couldn't have done anything."

"I could have been there for you. We could have been there for each other. And I would't have found out about the whole thing from a gossipping staffer."

"I'm sorry. We tried to prevent that."

"Its not really about that. But come on, Ben - I'm not seventeen anymore. I could have handled it."

"I meant well. Really."

Romeo sighs.

"I know. You always do."

"Have you talked to your Dad yet?"

"Briefly. He's very contrite, says it's all been a big misunderstanding..." Romeo shakes his head, and even in the dim light, Benvolio can see him clench his jaw. "I think it's all a bunch of bullshit. He knows exactly what he did. He always hated your foundation, and now, coincidentally, it's the one part that's been hit the hardest? Give me a break."

Benvolio is silent, a little overwhelmed by the day's sudden turn - and that only heightens when Romeo continues.

"He also tried to turn me against you, said you were the one setting him up - as if you would ever even think about doing anything like that."

"What did you tell him?"

"I told him if he ever says anything like that about you again I won't come visit him in prison."

Benvolio has to laugh, breathless with shock, and when he turns to look at his cousin, Romeo is looking uncharacteristically serious.

"You're the only person who's always been on my side. You helped me when Dad was still trying to pretend that everything was fine. If this thing ends up with him against you, I'm on your side. I hope you know that."

Benvolio wants to reply but his throat is suddenly tight. But he has a feeling Romeo can tell how overwhelmed he is, because his cousin tactfully changes the subject.

"Now, about those other things - saying goodye to Chase Adams I understand, he's been getting on my nerves as well. But selling the house? With that pool, and that view? Why would you do that?"

"For money, mostly. Your Dad's antics have left a bit of a dent in my finances, but I'm far from broke. If I "rearrange my assets", as Mercutio calls it, I can replace the missing funds for the Nightingale Project and still have enough left to live comfortably. Buy an apartment somewhere... "

In London, for example, his mind suggests slyly, and Benvolio forces himself not to listen. That would be the height of creepy behavior, buying an apartment in a woman's hometown after she specifically told him she didn't want to date him.

“I could help out with that. You don't have to sell your house.“

Benvolio shrugs.

“I don't need this much space anyway. Why hang on to it if the money could be better used somewhere else?”

He's learned that from Rosaline too, he knows – being humble and pragmatic and making sure money goes where it's needed. But clearly, his cousin doesn't quite understand where he suddenly acquired those values, and Benvolio can't blame him – he wasn't exactly known for his austere lifestyle before.

"So, what inspired all those changes?"

Benvolio hesitates, but only for a moment. This is Romeo - he's not going to keep anything from him anyway.

"I fell in love."

There's a moment of silence, then Romeo starts howling with laughter.

Benvolio lets him – they're always teasing each other, and he knows there's no malice behind his cousin's laughter. Still, that doesn't mean he won't try and make him feel guilty about it.

"You're going to feel very shitty about this in just a moment, you know,“ he says when Romeo's laughter finally dies down, his expression pained enough to tug at move conscience.

"Why?"

"She rejected me. I asked her to give us a shot and she said no. After Stella spread the rumor that we were back together."

Romeo winces.

"Shit. She believed it?"

"She believed me when I told her it was bullshit - but it didn't exactly make her eager to be part of this craziness. She's not used to this kind of stuff."

"Ah. Normals. Always difficult." Romeo settles more comfortably into his lounge chair, turning halfway to look at him. "Tell me about her anyway. You know I love a good tragic love story."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is a bit of a filler chapter, but that's only because there's been a lot happening in the last two chapters and there will be a lot happening in the next two, so I think we all need a bit of a breather.  
Also, I've also been working on a Rosvolio snowed-in fic that I've been putting off since before Christmas (please don't remind me that it's already March, I am AWARE), so that's been taking some of my writing energy away from this fic.


	11. I will not spend the years depleted of my willingness to try

Life goes on, as Rosaline knew it would. A local paper does a portrait on her bookshop that gets picked up on a popular travel blog, and that brings a few more customers into the shop. Juliet and Livia both make it a point to help out for a few hours every week - ostensibly to help her handle the increase in business, but frankly, Rosaline suspects they just want to keep an eye on her, watch out for any signs of a heartbreak-induced mental breakdown.

Well, she's not having one – she promised herself never to let a man get to her the way Escalus did, and she's sticking to that promise. There will be no more tears over this, no endless replays of any mistakes she may have made, clues she might have missed. Benvolio is a chapter of her life that is closed now – and a laughably short, irrelevant chapter at that.

After all, what did they really have? Two weeks, barely.

Two magical weeks, yes, and she'll keep the memory of those precious weeks and delete the days that followed them, the sting of betrayal and the sickening thought that she was never really anyone to him, and never could be.

She doesn't quite manage to make herself delete the pictures Benvolio took during their outing and sent her the day after, when he was bored while she was at the shop: Selfies of the two of them with their mountain of food at the market, Benvolio next to his favourite piece of art at the Nomadic Community Gardens, the both of them posing in front of a glass-encased Banksy piece because it's basically a tourist requirement in Shoreditch. A few are ones he took without her noticing, presumably when she was distracted with something else, and it's strange how private they feel, how intimate. In the pictures, she looks like she imagines she would through a lover's eyes, and she avoids looking at them so she isn't tempted to wonder what he thought when he took them.

It doesn't matter, she reminds herself, and she repeats it every time she's tempted to look up his name online, or scroll through his instagram feed, or rewatch all the Chase Adams-movies.

Instead, Rosaline chooses a different road: She remembers one thing he said during one of their evenings together and turns it over and over in her head until it forms from a memory into a plan.

“You should become a writer,” Benvolio told her one evening, after listerning with rapt attention to a story from her school days, and though he said it with a smile, perhaps joking, the words unearthed something almost buried within her. And then there were their conversations, their walk through her neighbourhood, that made other memories resurface as well. Benvolio particularly enjoyed it when she shared those: Stories of her parents, and their decision to give up everything in order to open Capulet Books.

It's a story she enjoyed telling as much as he enjoyed hearing it, and at some point during her retelling, she wondered if perhaps other people might like to hear it too.

And now, in dire need of something to take her mind off the man who feels like he's still right here in her living-room even though he's an ocean and a continent away, Rosaline starts to write it down.

She remembers the story well, because both her parents told it to her so often – her father boasting about how he won her mother's heart and fulfilled her wish of a little cultural corner of her own, her mother with a fond smile and descriptions that were perhaps a little more true to reality than her father's, though no less moving. She always thought it was the most romantic story she'd ever heard, far surpassing any romance novel.

Benvolio only got the short version, so Rosaline first sets about compiling everything she knows, jotting down the snippets she remembers being told by her parents, careful to capture the ways in which their stories differed. She makes lists of things she remembers about their parents and timelines of events as she recalls them. She goes through all their old family photo albums, adding the memories in her mind to the images on paper to make them come alive again, and takes out the box of old love letters their parents wrote each other to re-read them one by one. She even takes the risk of prodding her uncle for some additional information, taking him aside at Juliet's birthday dinner under the pretense of needing to know some dates in order to sort old photographs.

And then, she writes their story.

For weeks and weeks, she writes – behind her counter at the shop when it's quiet throughout the day, at the kitchen table at night. She writes and deletes and re-writes, and she doesn't think of Benvolio as much anymore – except for the one short moment, every time she opens the document with her manuscript, when her mind provides an echo of his words, “You should be a writer”, and a memory of the smile that went along with them, bright and encouraging.

And of course, some news of what he's doing filter through her bubble no matter how much she tries to ignore it; like the news that the next role he takes on is in a Shakespeare adaptation, although it's not the tragedy he meant to read for. It's a comedy instead, _Much Ado About Nothing_, and of course he's cast as Benedick. Never has anyone been more aptly cast in the role, she's convinced the moment she reads about it, knowing that the quick wit and easy charm he will bring to the part will suit it perfectly, and they'll be entirely his own.

When the movie comes out, she resists for all of two weeks before she goes to see it, alone, and emerges halfway back in love with him.

Then she goes right back to writing.

By this time, Livia and Juliet have long since caught on that something's going on, and apparently, while her strange behaviour was excused as getting over her almost-romance with Benvolio, now their patience is running out.

Finally, Livia calls, and after letting it go to voicemail two times, Rosaline interrupts a very focused editing session to answer, well aware that if she doesn't, her sister will turn up and knock down her door soon.

"Rosie, are you alright?"

"Of course I'm alright."

"It's just I barely hear from you anymore, and I'm really starting to worry."

"There's no need to worry, really. I... I've been busy writing a book."

"A book! How exciting! What's it about?"

"That's something I wanted to talk to you about, actually. It's... about our family. Mum and Dad, really - how they met and fell in love and opened the bookshop, against the family's wishes. I think it's a good story. But I don't want to publish it without your consent. It's your family history too."

There's a moment of stunned silence.

"Can I read it yet?"

"Yes. It's almost finished. Isabella has agreed to give it a read, give me some pointers."

"That's very nice of her."

"It is," Rosaline agrees. Isabella is an old friend of theirs who now works in the publishing industry, and even though they haven't been seeing as much of each other since Rosaline broke things off with Isabella's brother, they've kept in touch, meeting sometimes to catch up and geek out over new literary discoveries. She was a little worried Isabella might think she's taking advantage of her publishing contacts, but Isabella just laughed and waved off her concerns._ "What's the point of friends with connections if you won't make use of them? It's called networking, darling."_ And that was that.

"So, you'll send me the book? I have a paper to write, I'll take any excuse to procrastinate."

Rosaline laughs and agrees to send Livia the document, and then she spends all Saturday nervously pacing the store, waiting to hear her sister's verdict. She's had to somewhat embellish their parents' stories to turn them into an actual novel, but she's tried to stay as close to the truth as possible. Additionally, many of her own memories have gone in there as well, her own feelings and impressions. It may be based on their parents' love story, but it's also very much a story about the city and her family's chosen home, a story about family and freedom and courage and being an immigrant in a strange country and giving up everything to be with the person you love.

By the time Livia finally calls, late Saturday afternoon, Rosaline is a nervous wreck.

"What do you think?"

"I..." At the other end of the line, Livia sniffles, and Rosaline's heart sinks. "It's brilliant, Rosie."

Then she bursts into tears, and Rosaline feels like the worst person in existence.

"I'm sorry!", Livia sobs. "It's just... They're so alive in your story, Mum and Dad, and I miss them so much but sometimes I can't really remember them all that well..."

Rosaline knows exactly what she means. It took her a while to get her memories freshened up again, not to mention help from the family photo albums, her mother's favorite foods, and the few love letters left behind by her parents. The process of recalling all that was draining, and Rosaline can empathise with Livia all too well right now.

She waits for her sister's sobs to subside, making soothing noises from time to time.

"I know what you mean. Writing the book made me miss them all over again. But... You don't think it's inappropriate? To drag up their personal history like this?"

"I think it's a beautiful idea. It's... a monument. To them and their love. And they loved books, so it really makes sense, if you think about it."

"Thank you. I... It means so much that you approve of this, you know."

“How could I not? This is brilliant. You always wanted to be a writer – now you are!”

“You don't think it's too personal?”

“It's true, isn't it? Why not tell people.” In typical youngest child fashion, Livia doesn't worry nearly as much as Rosaline does. “But I guess if you're worried about how the rest of the family will react, you can always publish under a pseudonym.”

“I might,” Rosaline agrees, suddenly feeling more than a little intimidated. Up until now, writing her book has been the only thing on her mind. Now that she actually has, the thought of getting it published has suddenly become a lot more real.

“There's just one thing I have to ask,” Livia says just then, and Rosaline's already tense nerves are on high alert once more. “Why write it now?"

The question is harmless, but her answer, if she decides to be honest, might get her into choppy waters, emotionally. But at least if it does, her sister's already on the phone.

"Benvolio made me think of it. He said I should write a book, and he was really moved by our parents' story, so I figured maybe other people would like to hear it too. And also..." She has to sort her thoughts before she continues. "I think he also made me remember that this is what I wanted to do, once. That, as much as I love the shop, I used to have other dreams too."

"That's great, Rosie! I'm really happy to hear you're working on that dream again. And now that I've read it, I think it's a shame you didn't get a chance to do it sooner."

"Well, I've done it now," Rosaline concludes, suddenly giddy with excitement. She actually wrote a book! She has no idea if anyone will even want to publish it, but she's already done the most important thing, in her opinion: She's proven to herself that she can write a book, and move at least one person with her words.

Whether or not anyone else will want to read it, that's out of her hands now.

She sends the manuscript to Isabella the same day, settling in to repeat the cycle of waiting nervously for someone else's verdict. But Isabella's comes much quicker than her sister's, perhaps because she's unburdened by emotion or simply because she's a practiced and presumably fast reader. And as is customary for Isabella, her friend is not holding back. Rosaline's call has barely gone through when Isabella already starts berating her.

"Rosaline Capulet, I can't believe you've been hiding this kind of talent. I could have been collecting literary clout off of you for years!"

Rosaline isn't sure what to reply to that -_ thanks? I'm sorry?_

"So, should I send it to a publisher?", she finally asks, because that is the most pressing question now.

"I'd prefer it if you didn't."

Rosaline is taken aback. Wasn't her friend just praising her literary talent?

"Because I want to be the first to make you an offer! You're free to send it to other publishers, of course, but I'm really hoping I'll be the one who gets to snap you up. I've already sent the manuscript to my boss and strongly suggested that we buy it. If you come by on Monday, we'll discuss the terms and get to work. There's still a fair bit of editing to do, and I'm sure you'll want to see your debut out as soon as possible. So, I'll see you tomorrow at eight in my office?"

"Um...", Rosaline only stutters, a little overwhelmed by Isabella's speed.

"Wonderful. Now, I have to run, I have a luncheon thing coming up, but tomorrow we'll get right to work turning you into the bestselling author you should be. You have big things coming your way, darling!"

With that, she hangs up, and Rosaline is blinking confusedly at her bookcase.

Things happen very fast after that.

Her first meeting with Isabella and her boss ends in a signed book deal and a detailed plan for daily editing sessions, to start the very next day. The next weeks are spent sitting together with Isabella, going over every word in her manuscript and turning it over again, debating every plot point, every line of dialogue, every character introspection, until they're both satisfied with them.

And suddenly, her book is going into the final proofread and all that's left are final little touches: Rosaline meets with an artist for the design of the cover, has her picture taken, and has to think about details like a dedication. That task feels important but doesn't really take up that much time: Her dedication will be a list of thank-yous to the people who, in her opinion, were vital in creating the book. She sends it to Livia once more, in a fit of last-minute nerves, only to receive surprising criticism in return.

"You forgot someone in your dedication."

"Who?"

"Benvolio, of course!"

It's still a shock to hear his name, and Rosaline startles.

"I don't know, Liv. Wouldn't it be kind of weird?"

"You told me he was the one who inspired you to write it in the first place."

"Well, yes, but..."

"No buts. He deserves a thank you for that."

A pause, during which Rosaline guesses her sister is waiting for her to agree.

"Come on, Rosie. You wrote an entire book about how important it is to be brave. You're not going to chicken out now, are you?"

In the end, her dedication reads:

_"This book is dedicated to my parents, whose courage, passion and indomitable spirit inspire me to this day._

_It is dedicated to Livia and Juliet, whose love and support gets me through everything._

_It is dedicated to my editor Isabella, who gave me a chance and then locked me in her office until every word in this book was up to her standards._

_And it is dedicated to the superhero who told me I should write a book in the first place - I finally did."_

She's a little uncertain about the superhero-part, knowing about Benvolio's conflicted relationship with his alter ego. But then, on the off chance that he actually reads her book, she wants him to know that he played a small but significant part in it: Without his encouragement, she may never have started writing it in the first place.

Two months later, Rosaline is a first-time published author.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I have no idea how the publishing industry works, and also, I'm not entirely sure if the timeframe for this chapter works. But some random websites have assured me that it's technically possible to make a movie or publish a book in the span of just a few months so... yeah. Let's all just choose to believe that this is true.


	12. I'm not looking for redemption nor some shallow kind of bliss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, with everything that's been going on, I've been wondering if now is really the time to be posting fanfic. But maybe a distraction is welcome too, even now.

Two months and ten days later in an apartment in Los Angeles, Benvolio Montague clicks "Buy now" on a new ebook. He's ordered the paperback version as well, but he can't possibly delay reading it until the physical copy arrives.

But when he's downloaded the ebook, Benvolio nearly doesn't make it past the first page. Because the book is Rosaline's, and the dedication on the first page... is to _him_.

At least, part of it is, he thinks and then immediately wonders if he's being completely delusional. After all, could she really mean him? When they haven't spoken in months? Or is he ridicously overestimating the kind of impact he had on her? But he remembers all too well the night she told him she always wanted to be a writer, triggered by his well-intentioned suggestion.

And the wording... The "superhero" certainly sounds like a veiled way to refer to him - after all, she can't very well write his name in there after they went to such lengths to keep their connection a secret. It _has_ to be a coded way of referring to him.

But if it is, what does it mean? Functionally, it's just a thank you, an acknowledgement that he played some tiny part in the genesis of the book before him. But a part of him thinks that it could be a sign, too: That, even months after they parted ways, she still hasn't forgotten about him. That the dedication is her way of saying that their time together resonated with her, causing ripples in her life that have lasting effects just as it did in his.

Maybe it means that he wasn't imagining it: they really did connect, in ways more meaningful than one night together. And maybe it shouldn't have ended the way it did, before it ever had a chance to grow into something more lasting.

And maybe, that treacherous little hope inside him whispers, they could still have that.

Or maybe he's just being completely delusional.

* * *

Three days after Benvolio Montague buys a book, Juliet Capulet receives a private message on Instagram that she first assumes is a prank.

"This might sound weird, but is your cousin Rosaline Capulet, of Capulet Books in London?"

"Yes, she is. And who is this?"

Of course, she can see their username. But it seems to be some sort of Romeo Montague fan-account, one that has the nerve to claim to be an original account no less, and before she divulges anything more, she'd like to find out who she's dealing with.

"It's Romeo Montague. It says so in my name and bio."

"Oh sure, and I'm Meghan Markle," Juliet replies, not sure if she should be amused or annoyed by whatever the hell is going on. She'd assume it was some guy trying to hit on her, if he hadn't started the conversation with a question about her cousin.

"I really am." A pause. "And I'll prove it to you."

"How?"

"For one thing, I can tell you that I know you're Rosaline's cousin from _my_ cousin, Benvolio, and that he in turn knows you because he once cooked dinner for all of you. Apparently, you were charming and had a lot of questions."

Juliet is stunned silent for a moment as it dawns on her that he really might be who he is. How else would some stranger know about Benvolio's visit? She didn't tell anyone about it, and she's sure that Rosaline and Livia kept his secret as well.

"Videochat me."

When he does, Juliet nearly drops her phone. She's never actually met Romeo Montague in person, of course, but she's seen enough pictures and videos over the years to recognize him immediately.

"Holy shit.“

“Told you it was me,“ he gloats with a cheeky grin, but it passes quickly. “I need to talk to you." He squints at the camera critically. "Are you alone?"

He certainly appears to be alone, sitting on a gigantic sofa in an even more gigantic living-room, based on the parts of it she can see behind him – an open kitchen to one side, glass sliding doors opening onto a patio to the other. His casual outfit – sweatpants and a white t-shirt – are kind of a weird juxtaposition to the obvious wealth displayed by his surroundings, but then who is she to say that popstars can't just hang around in sweatpants?

She's drifting off and he's still waiting for a response, she realizes, and nods quickly. Her 14-year-old self would probably be hyperventilating at the thought of actually talking to _Romeo Montague_, and in all honesty, her twenty-something self is pretty close to freaking out as well. She has got to keep it together, at least long enough to find out the reason behind this completely out of the blue call.

"And you promise you won't record this call?"

"Of course I won't."

"Im sorry I'm being such a dick about it. But if you aren't who you say you are and you leak this conversation, Benvolio will get hounded again."

"I understand.” So that's what this is about, his cousin – and, presumably, hers as well. “No one needs to know what we're talking about here."

He hesitates for a moment, perhaps deciding if he can trust her, then he nods.

"I wanted to ask what you know about Rosaline's book. Specifically, the dedication. More specifically-"

"The superhero part? Yes, it's about him. _Obviously_."

"She hasn't forgotten him?"

"No, not at all." She pauses for a moment, considering the slightly blurry image of the man before her. She doesn't know him, but she feels an immediate urge to tell him everything she's thinking. Still, this isn't about _her_ feelings. "Why?"

"Because he hasn't forgotten her either. He's been talking about her a lot after he got back from London. And ever since he read that dedication, he's been driving himself – and me – crazy wondering if the dedication is about him or if he's being delusional."

"He's not. Rosaline really meant it when she wrote that: Without him, she would not have started to write that book."

"So, what do we do about that?"

"Do?"

"I think we need to do something to help them get another chance. I think... I think they're it, for each other."

"You mean like... Soulmates or something?"

He's silent for a moment, apparently pondering her words, then he nods slowly.

"Yes. I think they might just be."

"Wow. You really are a romantic. I thought...-" she breaks off, realising at the last moment how rude her next words would have been.

"What?" He seems genuinely curious – and hey, who knows if she's ever going to have a chance to talk about him again? She might as well make the most of it now.

"You being such a big romantic... I was afraid that was just a front, to sell your music. People keep telling me that's what it probably is."

"And you didn't believe them?"

"I didn't want to. I prefer to think that you really mean the things you say in your songs."

"I do." He pauses, looking pensive. "I mean, if my entire creative output was a lie, what would be the point? And, even more importantly, if I didn't actually feel the things I'm singing about..."

“Although probably not quite as deeply as it sounds in the songs,” Juliet prods, not sure herself what she's hoping to achieve. But Romeo will not be deterred.

“Why not? Maybe some people find it hard to believe, but sometimes I feel things exactly as intensely as I write about them. Sometimes I don't, and I always think that's worse. I'd rather feel too much than nothing at all."

"Funny, everyone in my family believes the opposite is true. They'd rather play it safe and risk missing out on everything."

"And what do you believe?"

Juliet considers him for a moment, his face serious and inquisitive while he waits for her answer.

They're drifting further and further away from the actual reason for his call, but Juliet can't bring herself to try and get them back on track. She likes listening to him, she realizes, and noticing that she's been doing so while standing in the middle of her room the entire time, she follows his example and gets comfortable as well, curling up in the wicker armchair by her bed.

"I believe they're wrong."

Romeo studies her for a moment before he asks:

"So what are you doing about it?"

“I'm still trying to figure it out.“ She laughs, a little embarrassed. “Is that a super lame answer?“

“No. I think that's what we're all doing.“

Their videochat lasts for another two hours, and it won't be the last.

* * *

Rosaline doesn't know her cousin got a call from Romeo Montague, nor does she hear of any other Montague – she's too busy turning into a decently well-selling novelist, thanks to Isabella's all-encompassing marketing program. In fact, she rarely thinks of Benvolio anymore – except, sometimes, to wonder if she should break her own rule of not contacting him to tell him that she took his advice and wrote that book after all. And every time she does, to her own astonishment, she finds that she hasn't stopped missing him.

And then he returns into her life in the most unexpected way.

It's during a meeting with Isabella, when they're discussing what Rosaline should focus her attention on next, that Isabella drops the information:

"Somebody optioned your book for a screenplay."

"They want to turn it into a movie?"

Isabella nods.

"Yes. And they seem pretty serious about it. They actually sent a first draft already."

"That's unusual?"

"Very. They must really want it. There's a letter attached to it as well, marked for you specifically. I've put it in with the script for you to read."

Well, this is just getting more and more intriguing, Rosaline thinks.

"Sounds serious. Do you know them?"

"Not personally, no. But," Isabella draws out the word with audible delight, "you're _never_ going to believe who it is."

"Who?"

"Benvolio Montague! The Space Cowboy guy? Apparently, he's trying his luck behind the camera now. He's billed himself as the producer..."

Isabella goes on, but Rosaline has stopped listening, unable to focus over the echo of that one name ringing through her head: Benvolio Montague.

She knows he read her book, because Juliet reported that he posted about it on his Instagram, and she suspects it had a lot to do with the sudden boost of readers and fans of the young, female demographic. But other than that, she hasn't heard of him since their last phone call.

“Anyway, from a first glance, the screenplay actually looks pretty solid – this might be more than just a vanity project, so you should give it a look. The conditions of the offer look good too – they even want you to be involved in the production. Not to mention, having a name this big attached to the project will be a marketing boost that would otherwise cost us a pretty penny. So, take your time, read the screenplay, and tell me what you think.”

With that, Isabella rushes on to her next meeting and Rosaline heads home in a daze, clutching the thick envelope so tightly her fingers are stiff when she finally sets it down on the kitchen table. For a moment, she only looks at it, not sure what exactly she's afraid of – that the letter actually is from Benvolio, or that Isabella somehow misinterpreted it and the sender is someone else entirely?

Finally, she decides to set the letter aside for the moment, feeling more than a little cowardly, and turns her attention to the screenplay instead. It's what she should be focusing on anyway, rather than whatever her overactive imagination expects to read in that letter. This is about her book. She's a professional author now. She should be professional enough to focus on that even in this extraordinary situation.

But focussing is difficult, especially when there's _so much_ of Benvolio in the screenplay. It's still her book, her story, her voice even – but he's in there too, not as if he was telling her story but as if she was telling it to him, replying to his questions, delving deeper into the parts he finds most interesting.

Benvolio only spent a short time in her life, but he must have soaked up everything he learned during that time. And he _listened_, she can tell because he isn't just drawing on the book - he's drawing from what she told him, and the way she told it. She can even recognize Livia in the way he portrayed her father, and remembers telling him once how similar they are – dreamers both of them, kind souls determined to see the best in people. It's just one example but it shows clearly what she's been trying to talk herself out of believing ever since they parted ways: That somehow, after just a few days together, Benvolio understood her better than almost anyone else, simply by paying attention.

And in the script before her, that attention has paid off.

She never even imagined her book being turned into an actual movie – frankly, she's still not done coping with the fact that it was turned into a printed book in the first place – but if she had tried to imagine it, this is what she would have have wanted it to be.

And then there's the letter, handwritten on several pages of thick stationery, the creamy paper subtly embossed with the logo of a luxury hotel chain. She remembers Benvolio telling her that he sometimes takes the stationery from his hotel rooms but never has an opportunity to actually use it – apparently, he's finally found one.

“_Dear Ms Capulet,”_

it starts, very business-like, and Rosaline frowns – only to smile again at the very next line.

“_Just kidding – I hope we're still on a first name basis.”_

The words sound so much like him that her throat constricts suddenly.

“_I'm writing this letter from the perspective of two, no, three people. The first is the perspective of a reader who loved your story and really wants to see it turned into a movie, so that more people can experience it. The second is as a producer who wants to be the one to make sure that movie gets made – which my team tells me is a good business decision if the movie turns out to be as much of a hit as the book. _

_And then...”_

She pauses, feeling absurdly like that's what he did too when he got to that point, as if he needed to take a deep breath just like she's doing right now.

“_And then there's just me, and the fact that I'm still thinking about you. That sounds silly, I know, or possibly creepy (God, I hope you don't think it's creepy), but it's the truth. The two weeks I spent with you were the best time I've had in years. And, more importantly, they've changed me. __You__ have changed me, Rosaline. I really hope this doesn't sound as overblown when you read it as it does now that I'm writing it. It's not even entirely right – I guess it would be a pretty big thing to put on someone, changing someone else. Maybe it would be more correct to say that you made me want to change in the first place._

_You see, you were the first person in a long time who asked me if I was happy. It wasn't a big deal to you, but for me, “Does it make me happy” has not been a question that has featured in my decision-making... ever. The more important questions were things like “Will it advance my career?” and “Will it pay well?”. You made me remember that it should matter if something makes me happy, too. And with that in mind, I made some changes: I sold my house to have more money for my charity, for one thing. I'm also investing a lot more time in it, because I realized if I really want to make a difference, I need to really put in the work too. And then I took a look at my career, and the things I've been doing to maintain it, and I made some changes there as well. _

_I don't want to go into all the details now, but I do want to thank you. You did more for me than you perhaps realized. (But I promise, the movie is not a weird thank you-gesture. And I don't want you to think that I'm trying to manipulate you into agreeing to the movie, or trick you into talking to me again.) ( Oh, and also, I know you said I should stop thanking you and I will, I promise.) (Wow, I am using way too many parentheses.)”_

Rosaline has to laugh. She remembers scolding Benvolio for thanking her over and over again and him still continuing to do it, and she finds herself once again charmed. The screenplay already softened her up, and now there's this rambling letter with its jokes and its parentheses and it suddenly feels like just yesterday that they woke up in her bed together, with sleepy smiles and soft kisses and the feeling that something special was happening.

She stops herself from going down that road again and focuses on the letter once more.

“_The other thing... Wow, this is a lot more difficult than I expected. But here goes nothing: The other thing brings me right back to what I said earlier: I'm still thinking about you. Still miss you, actually, weird as that sounds. I think we had a real connection, and we gave up on it too easily. I'm not blaming you – I really understand where you were coming from. But I should have fought like hell to convince you to try anyway. I should have told you of all the things I could do to protect you – move away from LA, hire a PR team for you, hell, give up making movies altogether. I should have offered those things, just to give us a chance to try and see where we could go. But I didn't, and maybe even if I had things wouldn't have worked out anyway. But the slim chance that maybe they could have just won't leave me alone. _

_Now the only thing left for me to do is hope that maybe you haven't forgotten me either. And maybe, if I suggested we get together for a drink the next time I'm in London, you'll say yes._

_So, yeah. I guess that's all I meant to say. _

_I'll see you around, maybe? _

_Love,_

_Ben_

_PS: I should probably clean this up a little. Take out all those damn parentheses, for one thing. But I'm afraid by the time I'm finished with that I'll be too scared to actually send this. So you'll get the whole mess, and I can only hope it won't make you think I'm just as much of a mess myself. I'm not, I promise. I'm just... Well, I guess I'm just a guy trying to find the guts to ask out a girl he likes._

Rosaline lets the letter drift down to the table, absolutely stunned. Of all the things she expected to read, this... this was not it.

Benvolio is still thinking about her – missing her, even. He thinks giving up before they even had a chance to start was a mistake. And he wants to try again, or at the very least, to talk to her again.

Which means she should figure out if she wants to do the same, and then tell him. Or does he expect her to write back? But how could she possibly do that when she can barely string together two coherent thoughts?

_Focus_, Rosaline tells herself, and her brain latches on to the last thing it's been told to focus on: The screenplay. Because she knows what to say about that, and maybe that's a good place to start.

She picks up her phone.

"Isabella? Tell them I'm taking the offer.” She laughs, feeling light-headed and reckless and not caring one bit. “Let's make a movie."


	13. Lay me down and kiss me deeply, show me everything I missed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is it - we've reached the end of this wacky journey. Beware: There will be ridiculous amounts of fluff in this chapter, and I will not apologize. 
> 
> Also, just a quick reminder that this fic was sort of inspired by the song The Heart is a Muscle by Gang of Youths, because the way the song feels is the way this fic is supposed to feel. It's beautiful and hopeful and you should listen to it: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y5OpvDdVtYU 
> 
> (No, I haven't learned how to do links here. Also yes, I was definitely trying to do a sneaky songfic by including lyrics as the chapter titles :D I was introduced to fanfic in the early 00s, songfic was big back then, okay? Anyway, I'm stalling.)

Rosaline has often made the experience that the best way to deal with extraordinary situations is by taking them one step after the other – and that the hardest step is usually the first. But this time, after she's taken that first step and told Isabella she wants to make the movie, Rosaline finds herself faltering.

Benvolio pretty much spelled out for her that he'd go along with whatever choice she might make. She's made one of those choices: Now that she's read his screenplay, she can't imagine turning it into a movie without him.

The only other question still on the table is the second one he brought up: Will she allow him to return to her life as more than just the producer of her movie?

For months, she's tried to tell herself that she's been getting over him. That there couldn't have been _that_ much to get over in the first place – they only spent two weeks together, for fuck's sake! But try as she might, she could never quite forget those two weeks: The long conversations, the quiet little shows of support, the feeling of being accepted, even admired just as she is – even on her bad days, even when she felt weak and stupid and overwhelmed by taking on the burden of her parents' legacy and appearing to fail at it. All those things stayed with her, and reading Benvolio's letter made the memories resurface once more, along with the question she tried so hard not to ask herself after they said goodbye: Did she make a mistake letting him go?

She didn't think so, at the time – it seemed like the sensible, safe, _realistic_ decision. Meeting the perfect man, falling in love and ending up happily ever after? That kind of thing might happen in movies, but it doesn't happen in the real world. In the real world, people meet at parties and pubs and try to turn drunken fumbles into relationships, or they go on dates with blokes they've met online until one of them turns out to be tolerable, or they simply end up with whoever's free in their social circle. They _don't_ have whirlwind romances with Hollywood stars and seriously expect them to last longer than one gossip news cycle.

And yet... And yet, it seems like that's exactly what she wants. Not the movie romance, or the Hollywood glamour, or the ego-trip of being wanted by a man half the world lusts after. It's simply a matter of having found someone she likes to be with, someone who makes her laugh and feel invincible. Is it really so wrong to want that person to stay around, as long as they want to?

She is aware at this point that she's basically carrying out a discussion with herself, which feels a little schizophrenic. But apparently, that showdown has been a long time coming, and finally, the part of her that doesn't usually get much of a say gains the upper hand and shuts up the scared, _sensible_ part of her for good: She wants to be with Benvolio, and she's not going to pass up on her second chance to make that happen.

The only question now is how to let him know.

A letter would be most appropriate, a direct response, but she doubts she'll find the right words amid the jumble of her thoughts right now. A phone call seems nothing short of daunting, while a text message would not be enough, and neither would sending a message through Isabella. She has to think about this carefully.

One week later, Rosaline has re-read Benvolio's script more times than she's bothered to count.

She's signed the contract Isabella had legal draw up and sent it off for Benvolio to sign as well.

But she has yet to reply to his letter.

She has at least progressed to _trying_ to write a reply and is nearly knee-deep in balled-up sheets of paper with abandoned drafts when the door to the shop opens.

“Rosaline?“, an unfamiliar voice calls out. “Rosaline Capulet?“

“Yes?“ She gets up to emerge from her place behind the counter, squinting at the new customer. He's still standing in the doorway, backlit by the bright sunshine outside, so it's hard to make him out very well, but she could swear she's looking at... “Romeo Montague?“

“The very same. Can we talk in private?“ He looks around nervously, and she knows from her last brush with the world of the super famous what he's afraid of. A few brisk steps take her to the door so she can lock it behind him.

“There are no customers in at the moment.“

He nods, then launches right into an explanation of what brought him here – not that it's very hard to guess.

“Look, I know it's not technically any of my business. And I know Benvolio told you that he didn't expect an answer-“ he seems to notice the surprised raise of her eyebrows, and explains: “He told me about the letter. So, you know, you don't owe him or me anything. But as a fellow human, I beg you to please, _please_ tell him something. He's driving us all mad.“

That stuns her into complete silence – which Romeo seems to interpret as a denial of his request, because he takes her hand to plead even more effusively.

“You have no idea how intolerable he's been. He's been obsessed with writing that screenplay, and then he still spent several days wondering if he should actually send it to you. Then he nearly gave himself a heart attack over that letter. And when you actually took his bid for the movie rights... He was out of his mind with joy. And now, for one long, loooong week, he's been waiting to hear whether you have anything else to say to him. So please, for mine and Mercutio's sanity, say _something_.“

“I've been trying to,“ she says, pointing at the pile of discarded letter drafts. “The entire week. I just... didn't know how.“

Romeo looks at the site of her ineffective endeavour with a stunned expression, shaking his head incredulously.

“You know, for two people who manage to write entire books and screenplays, you're both stupidly bad at written communication.“

He studies her for one more moment, then he nods, seemingly to himself.

“There's only one thing to do then. You have to talk to him.“

“You mean call him? I don't know...“

“No, I mean _actually_ talk to him, in person. You know he's in London, right? There's one last press conference with _Wonder Studios_ for the sequel they made him appear in, and then he's free. Unfortunately, he's booked a flight back to the US right after the conference. I think he didn't want to give in to the temptation of showing up here without being sure you wanted to see him.“

And while she's still busy taking in that information, Romeo is already planning ahead.

“Get your keys and lock up the shop. If we hurry, we can make it to the Savoy before the conference ends and he takes off again. You two need to talk.“

And, confused as she is, Rosaline has to admit that he's right about that, at least. They really do need to talk.

Nodding wordlessly, she does a quick runthrough of her security measures, grabs her keys and purse, and follows him outside, where a shiny black limousine is waiting just by the door of the shop, blocking half the street. Of the two Montagues, Benvolio is definitely better at not drawing attention.

But Romeo is already holding open the door to the limousine, and she's just about to get in when her name is called out again. This time, it's Livia, approaching with Juliet.

“What's going on?“ Livia asks, at the same time Juliet demands to know:

“Where are we going?“

Rosaline wishes she knew the answer to that. But in her stead, Romeo pops his head out the car door and replies:

“We're crashing a press conference.“

“Ooh, sounds like fun!“, Juliet exclaims and hops into the back after him, and then they're both peering out at her and Livia with near-identical expectant faces.

“Are you coming or what?“

“Right, yes.“ Finally shaken out of her surprise, Livia clambers into the car too, and Rosaline follows, suddenly determined. It's not like holing up in her apartment and being too scared to contact Benvolio directly helped her figure out what she wants to say. She might as well confront him and see if that jogs her brain.

In the car, Livia is still grappling with the situation, particularly the identity of the person currently whisking them away.

“So, this is...“ Livia whispers much too loudly in Rosaline's direction.

“I'm Romeo Montague,“ Romeo explains, politely extending his hand.

“Oh, they're aware,“ Rosaline comments drily, gleefully noticing the blush blooming on her cousin's face. If she recalls correctly, Romeo Montague was one of many popstars Juliet harboured a brief but passionate crush for during her early teens, and Rosaline can only imagine that meeting him now must be awkward at the very least.

But instead of being shocked or embarrassed to be faced with one of the idols of her teen years, Juliet remains surprisingly calm.

"You made it!," she states, to Rosaline's confusion, and Romeo nods.

"Of course. I wouldn't want to miss this." He looks at Juliet for a moment, with a soft expression that reminds Rosaline achingly of his cousin, before he says the strangest thing yet: "It's good to finally meet you."

For a moment of breathless hybris, Rosaline thinks he's talking to her, that Benvolio mentioned her enough to warrant this impatient curiosity. But Romeo isn't looking at her - he's looking at Juliet, and Juliet in turn is smiling a very similar soft smile.

"We've only been talking for like, a couple of weeks."

"It feels like more," Romeo shrugs, and the blush on Juliet's cheeks intensifies.

There's definitely _something_ happening here, but Rosaline doesn't have the patience to puzzle it out right now - and neither does her sister, apparently.

"Is anyone going to tell me what the fuck is going on here?"

"My cousin's still pining after your cousin," Romeo explains, eyes still fixed on Juliet for another moment before he tears his gaze away.

"Really? So is Rosaline!" Livia exclaims, without a shred of consideration for her sister's dignity.

"I'm not _pining_."

"Well, you're not over him."

"It's been one and a half years. Of course I'm over him."

"Really?”, Romeo interjects. “The pile of unfinished letters on your desk suggests otherwise."

"What letters? What's been going on?"

Of course Livia is already in full investigator mode.

"You don't know?" Romeo seems surprised to hear it.

"I didn't have a chance to tell you yet," Rosaline explains, not sure why she's getting so defensive. "I was still processing."

"What's been going on," Romeo starts to explain, "is that my dear cousin fell in love with your dear cousin. That didn't work out, but he also didn't stop thinking about her, so he decided to buy the rights to her book and turn it into a screenplay. But he didn't just let his agent handle all that. No, he wrote her a letter and confessed his feelings and asked her to give him another chance. So now Benvolio is dying with impatience hoping she'll talk to him anyway, even though he told her he didn't expect her to because he didn't want to pressure her."

Rosaline knows all this, from the letter and because Romeo told her earlier, but she's still struggling to accept that it's actually real. It falls to Livia to blurt out:

“He's _in love_ with her?”

That happens to be the thing Rosaline would most like to have confirmed as well, ideally by Benvolio himself.

"He told me so himself,” Romeo answers, adressing Rosaline in response to her sister's question, “And even though that was right after he returned from London, I think he's still hung up on you. So if that applies to you as well, I see no reason why you two shouldn't figure things out somehow."

He makes it sound so simple that Rosaline can't help but want to share his optimism. Why _shouldn't_ they figure things out? Maybe Romeo is right, and all they need to do is talk.

She's not entirely sure how Romeo planned for that conversation to happen, but she assumed there'd be some kind of backstage area, a place where they can meet in private after the conference before Benvolio has to rush off to the airport.

But apparently, Romeo has made no such plans: When they arrive at the Savoy Hotel, after a miraculously brief though potentially life-threatening drive, he walks straight up to the reception desk, introduces himself, and demands to be taken to the press conference despite not actually being press or invited. But of course, him being him the request is granted anyway, and they're soon ushered through the halls to a ballroom already packed with reporters.

There's a row of cameras at the front, right before a low podium with a row of barstools placed in a semicircle. And sitting on one of the barstools, right before a larger-than-life banner of Chase Adams flanked by a bunch of new _Wonder Studios_ characters Rosaline doesn't recognize, is Benvolio.

For a moment, she only stares at him, her heart beating in her throat. The ache she's been feeling every time she thought of him slams back into her with a vengeance, leaving her breathless. Yes, she thinks, the non-sensible part of her was right: She wants to be with him, and screw whatever she'll have to face for it.

* * *

Benvolio doesn't know what he expected after sending that letter with his screenplay and the bid for the rights to Rosaline's book. He told himself not to expect too much: Most likely, she's long over what happened between them, and the only thing influencing her decision on whether or not she should take his offer for the book rights is the money attached to it (or, on a more hopeful note, the actual quality of the screenplay). That's what she _should_ do, at least.

But knowing that didn't keep him from hoping for a different turnout. A letter back, perhaps, or a phone call, or even a message passed on through her agent. Even an angry reply would have been something he could have worked with. He could have turned his back on the whole thing knowing he didn't give up without trying everything, the way he did the last time they spoke.

But instead, he got... nothing and everything at the same time. She took the offer, her agent let him know – but she didn't tell him _why_. He doesn't know if she liked his script, his offer for the rights – or the other suggestion attached to it.

So when he arrives at the _Wonder Studios_ press conference in London because the studio only let him go if he returned for one more cameo in the spin-off to their next franchise, Benvolio is still thoroughly confused; distracted all throughout the conference. Luckily, there isn't much to do for him: He's supposed to pass on the torch to a new generation of heroes, and the studio representatives are doing their best to direct the reporters' focus on to their fresh batch of future stars, eager to push them into the limelight. It makes him all the more certain that he was right to turn his back on Wonder Studios: He gave them the last ten years of his life, and the second it looks like he won't be of any more use, they drop him like a hot potato.

Of course, the reporters are still trying to get a few questions through to him, but there's only one that really interests him:

“So, Benvolio, what are your plans now? What's the next big project?“

“Actually, I'll be working behind the camera on my next project: I've just got the chance to produce a movie myself.“

“Can you tell us a little bit more about that?“, the reporter follows up, and Benvolio nods. He managed to get all the contract details with Rosaline's publishing house sorted just in time to be able to announce his new project here, and now he's doing so with unabashed glee.

“It's a book adaptation. You might have heard about it: „Plantains and Paper“? It's the debut novel of a very talented writer from London, which turned into a surprise hit.“

“What drew you to the novel?“

The studio's PR lady is starting to look impatient, which makes Benvolio enjoy this even more.

“Well, for one thing, it's just a bloody good read.“ The simple phrasing and playful Britishism earns him a few laughs, and Benvolio lets the room settle again for a moment before he continues. “But more importantly, I think the author is someone whose voice deserves to be heard. We get so used to seeing the same stories in cinema, written by the same people about the same people. It's time for a change of perspective, I think.“

Yup, that one definitely pissed the studio execs off, he can tell by their stony expressions, and the naked fear creeping on the fresh faces of the new starlets.

“Two more questions for Mister Montague, then that will be all the time we have left,“ the PR General announces, gesturing for an eagerly waving reporter to ask their question.

“First of all, let me congratulate you on a great choice – I've read the book, and I thought it was brilliant.“

Benvolio smiles, partly because of the compliment to his taste and partly because he too has been praising Rosaline's book to the high heavens ever since he first read it, and always enjoys meeting a fellow fan.

“Your question, please,“ the PR dragon reprimands, cutting short their moment of fannish excitement.

“The book is set in Shoreditch, and draws heavily on that setting. Does that mean you will you be filming here in London?"

"Well, we haven't gotten around to those details yet – I only just signed the contract to the rights. But I am determined to film on location as much as much as possible. I want the movie to feel authentic, and do justice to its origins."

"So you'll be staying in London for a while?"

"If possible, I will try and follow the production closely."

The journalist looks as if she intends to ask another question, but she's cut off by the impatient PR lady.

"No follow-ups please. Let's get to our last question." She looks around the room once more, scanning for the next – and last – reporter to be allowed to ask a question.

"The young lady in the back, please."

"You said you'd be filming on location, in Shoreditch?"

The woman pauses, as if waiting for him to confirm, and Benvolio does so with a nod and a quick “Yes.”

He can't quite see her, as she's blocked by another reporter, but her voice sounds vaguely familiar.

"So if you were invited to stay with friends there, would you accept?"

This is an odd question, Benvolio thinks – how would a reporter even know about his supposed friends in Shoreditch? He only really knows one person there, and that's...

Impossible.

And then the reporter blocking his sight steps aside to reveal the woman who asked the question, and Benvolio wonders if he accidentally fell asleep and started dreaming.

Because standing right here in the middle of this soulless hotel conference room, wearing a light blue button-down and a heartbreakingly vulnerable expression, is Rosaline.

And that's when he realizes that her question wasn't a question at all – it was an invitation.

He sits in silence for a moment, completely stunned as he takes in what's happening, until the crowd of reporters starts to get impatient, murmuring amongst themselves.

Shaking himself out of his stupor, Benvolio lifts his microphone to reply, his heart thumping wildly in his chest but his eyes firmly on Rosaline.

"Yes. I'd love to come and stay there, if I was invited."

Her expression – one of fear, as unlikely as that might seem – holds for one more second, before it shifts into a smile, big and blinding, and Benvolio is smiling back within a heartbeat.

The room around them seems to dissolve even as the murmurs grow, the crowd catching on that there's something happening here, but Benvolio doesn't care, doesn't even look at anyone but her - Rosaline, _here_, ready to give him another chance after all.

The first camera flashes when he gets up and jumps off the podium, followed by a storm of others when he makes his way through the room towards her, the crowd parting like the sea before him.

And then he's standing before her, close enough to reach out. Rosaline is still smiling, seeming a little embarrassed now, and Benvolio wonders what on earth she feels she has to be embarrassed about: That was the bravest thing he's ever seen anyone do at a press conference.

"Any info yet on how long I'll be welcome to stay?"

He sounds more breathless than he'd like, but Rosaline doesn't seem to mind - in fact, she sounds a little shaky herself when she replies:

"Indefinitely."

Rosaline smiles, that small, enigmatic smile he remembers from their last morning together, the one he thinks means she's happy but still a little afraid to show it.

And then she kisses him.

All around him, he can see the flashes go off again, the reporters finally reacting to what's happening, then he closes his eyes. He can't make them disappear, but he's sure as hell not going to let them intrude upon this moment.

When he opens his eyes again, Rosaline looks breathless and dazed and he can feel himself grinning.

"I'm not going to be Chase Adams anymore," he blurts out, as if _that_ was the most important thing to talk about right now.

"I know." Rosaline is smiling too, a little shyly, and pauses long enough for him to take it in before she adds: "I wrote a book."

Benvolio has to laugh - because this exchange is absolutely superfluous but even more because it means so much: It means they both would have wanted to tell each other first – and maybe from now on, they will.

"It's brilliant." Another grin - he can't quite seem to stop himself. This entire situation is just so _ridiculous_, and he's ridiculously happy about it. "Someone should turn it into a movie."

Now Rosaline laughs too and then beams at him with the brightest smile he's ever seen on her, a smile he remembers from their time together – laughing at dinner with her sister and cousin, dashing through Shoreditch while fleeing from imaginary pursuers – and he gets momentarily caught up in the thought that he might get to see that smile a lot more in the future.

But much as he'd like to, they can't stay like this forever, simply grinning at each other as if the rest of the world didn't exist. For one thing, he'd like to kiss her again, _properly_, and for another, they should probably talk about what all of this means. And they should do it without an audience.

"We should maybe continue this conversation somewhere else," Rosaline suggests at that same moment, casting a shy glance at the reporters all around them as if, just like him, she'd only just become aware of their audience.

"You're right," Benvolio agrees, takes her hand and starts pulling her towards the exit, past the dumbstruck crowd.

Only one of the reporters has recovered enough to call out a question when he passes by.

"Benvolio what's going on here? What does this mean?"

Benvolio grins.

"It means I'm not taking any more questions."

* * *

A little over a year later, Benvolio and Rosaline attend another press conference. This time, they're both on the podium, along with the cast of the movie they just showed for the very first time at the press pre-screening: Their version of Rosaline's book.

They've worked closely together on making it happen – finding a director Rosaline liked, putting together the perfect cast and scouting settings all over London. Following Rosaline's invitation, Benvolio moved back in above _Capulet Books_, although he offered to get a place for himself to give Rosaline some space. So far, she hasn't needed it: They've found that they make a great team, and rarely tire of each other even after long days on set.

It was only when fans figured out that they actually both lived right above Rosaline's bookshop and started showing up there in steadily growing numbers that they reluctantly moved after all, for a little while at least. Their reunion at his last _Wonder Studios_ press conference caused quite a stir, with clips and photos of it all over the internet, and news outlets ringing Mercutio, the studio, and Rosaline's publisher nonstop to ask for an interview. In the end, they gave one, just to put an end to the incessant speculation, told their entire story, and then promptly stopped looking at any and all media coverage of their relationship. Benvolio did what he should have done in the first place and had Mercutio hire someone for Rosaline's PR and social media presence, and they managed to shield her from the public interest as much as possible, especially the less congratulatory reactions to their display at the press conference.

As expected, the craziness died down again after a few weeks, the gossip mags moving on to other, more salacious stories, and Rosaline could go back to running her bookshop and coming up with ideas for her next book. To Benvolio's great relief, they could even move back into her apartment above Capulet Books after an upgrade of the security measures. He'd buy her any place she wants in London, or at least anything he can afford with what's left of his fortune, but Benvolio knows Rosaline's home is in Shoreditch, and he himself has yet to find a place he loves more than her apartment.

So, after the movie screening and the press conference and the premiere party thrown for the cast and crew, that's where they return for their own celebration of the successful project. The champagne they drink on Rosaline's rooftop terrace is significantly cheaper than the one they had at the party earlier, purchased from Tesco's on the way home, but Benvolio couldn't care less.

He doesn't need 1.000 dollar-bottles of champagne, parties at nightclubs or overpriced food at the latest hyped-up restaurant. He's exactly where he wants to be, with the exact person he wants to be with, and everything else doesn't matter.

“So,” Rosaline asks, sitting beside him after she's wrangled off the pair of painfully high heels she wore to the premiere, “how does it feel to be a successful producer?”

“We won't know if I'm successful until the movie has actually made money,” he reminds her, and his chest tightens uncomfortably as the words bring back memories of meetings with the studio and his uncle, meetings about ticket sales and merchandise and ad contracts.

How unpleasant those memories are must be showing on his face, for Rosaline reaches up to cradle his cheek in her hand, her expression soft.

“You've successfully made a movie, haven't you? You told a story on your own terms, and whether five people like it or five million doesn't matter.”

The words are enough to chase off any bad memories, replacing them with a good one instead: Rosaline's words on the day he showed up on her doorstep, hounded by reporters and devastated by his uncle's betrayal. “_Screw the studio,”_ she'd spat, almost a sacrilege considering the studio basically owned him back then, and proceeded to concern herself only with what _he_ wanted at that moment.

Now he knows: _This_ is what he wanted – to live in peace and focus on telling interesting stories, and not give a damn about anyone or anything else.

And the reason he gets to do that is right here with him.

He leans over to kiss her and she melts into the kiss with a little sigh, the way she does when she's happiest.

“You're a very wise woman, Ms Capulet.”

“I've made my share of stupid decisions,” she protests, but Benvolio only smiles and kisses her again.

“And I love you anyway.”

“I know.” This time, Rosaline's smile is mischievous, her kiss a little more heated than before. “I love you too.”


End file.
